LADY MACLAIRN, THE VICTIM OF VILLANY . A NOVEL. IN FOUR VOLUMES. — CHAP. I. — LETTER LIV. Charles Duncan to Mr. Flamall. — LETTER LV.
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
BY MRS. HUNTER,
OF NORWICH,
AUTHOR OF LETITIA; THE UNEXPECTED LEGACY; THE HISTORY OF THE GRUBTHORPE FAMILY; PALMERSTONE’S LETTERS, &c.
VOL. IV.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR W. EARLE AND J. W. HUCKLEBRIDGE;
AND SOLD BY W. EARLE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STREET; GEORGE ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW; B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONERS’ COURT; THO. OSTELL, AVE MARIA LANE; AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.
1806.
S. Rousseau, Printer,
Wood Street, Spa Fields.
LADY MACLAIRN,
THE
VICTIM OF VILLANY.
3
——I will not attempt to describe
my agitations!—“In order to relieve
these emotions,” continued he, “I
will ease your suspence. I have seen a
person who has brought me intelligence of
Duncan. A stranger was introduced to
me, at a coffee-house last night, as wanting
to know and speak to me. He announced
himself as the super-cargo of a
Dutch ship, now in the Thames, and
said, that he was charged with a commission
for me, by a gentleman whom he had
4known at Surinam. I instantly ordered a
private room, and he informed me, that
he had first seen Duncan at Amsterdam;
had there learned enough of his story to
pity him; and that he made the voyage
to Surinam with him. His unfortunate
condition and deep dejection, during our
passage,” added this man, “more and more
interested my feelings, for one whose education
and manners had promised a very
different career. I was happily disposed
to befriend him; and as, fortunately, I
had the means of so doing, for I recommended
him to a merchant there, who received
him into his counting house. But
the fever of the climate seized him before
he had been a fortnight on shore. He saw
his danger, and had, as it appears, been
preparing for it. He gave into my hands
the picture of a young lady, which he
wore in his bosom, with a parcel, in which
he informed me was contained some letters
of the lady’s, with one for you. He conjured
5me to deliver these to you in person,
knowing that our ship was bound to
this port on her return. I promised to observe
his instructions, and I have only
further to add, Sir, that knowing, as I do,
the love he cherished for the lady, whom
he blessed with his last breath, I think it
right to hint to you some precautions in
acquainting her with my poor friend’s
death.” “You may suppose I satisfied
him on this point,” continued my brother,
and I endeavoured to sift out of him,
whether he knew the whole of Duncan’s
adventures and secrets. “It was an unhappy
business,” observed I, “that obliged
this unfortunate young man to quit England
and his friends, who were able and
not indisposed to serve him, had he not
been too precipitate: his flight was nearly
the death of the young woman in question.
You surprise me, by telling me
that his attachment for her continued.
Did he often speak of her?” “Never,”
6replied he, “Nor do I even know her
name or address. When, in nearly his
last hour, he gave me her picture from
his bosom, and said, Mr. Flamall knows
for whom it is destined. He will take
care to tell the unfortunate injured object
of my love, that Charles Duncan has expiated
all his errors, by dying, and leaving
her free.—I said, with seriousness, that
the most fatal of Duncan’s errors had been
that of not knowing his best friend; a
mistake, however, which had not been
shared by the young lady, whose heart
he had gained; for, that she still looked
up to me for friendship and consolation.
Our conversation finished by settling our
next meeting for this morning. I have
just left him, satisfied, as I believe, that
Duncan had in me a friend as generous as
himself. There is your picture and this
packet of your letters, with one for me,
which I have just received from the gentleman.
I will leave it for your perusal
7when you are able.” He quitted me,
unable to witness my distress. My Duncan’s
letter I shall copy.
“Before this reaches your hand I
shall be numbered with those in the grave,
and appear before that awful Tribunal, at
which mercy has her everlasting post.
There, and there only, does Charles
Duncan expect to find justice; for then
alone, will his errors be weighed with
his difficulties. Enclosed is my will, in
which I have left to Harriet Duncan, my
lawful wife, the whole and entire property
bequeathed to me by Margaret Duncan,
my supposed mother, and the only friend
I ever knew. I have charged this, my property,
8with the payment of one hundred
and fifty pounds to Mynheer Adrian Vandergucht,
my last benefactor. This sum
has been partly advanced for my necessities;
he will, with this, produce my acknowledgment
for the receipt of one hundred
pounds. I bequeath to him fifty, as
a debt of gratitude for kindnesses which
none can fully repay but his Maker; and
to his blessing and mercy do I fervently
recommend him.”
“From what Mrs. Duncan repeatedly
declared to me, and also from your conversations
with me, on the subject of my
little fortune, I conclude that my wife will
receive three thousand pounds as her future
provision. It may be, this pittance will be
shared by my child. Let it be your care,
Sir, faithfully to discharge a trust, for the
due performance of which, you will one
day be called to a strict account by a Being
more to be dreaded than,
9
My letter from my unfortunate Charles
contained these words:
“Forget, my beloved wife, that Charles
Duncan ever had existence, or that, in the
miserable course of that existence, he has
involved yours in his misery, blasted the
hopes of your youth, and planted daggers
in your faithful bosom. Forget, if thou
canst forget, when pressing to thy maternal
bosom, the fruit of thy ill-fated union, the
wandering, wretched father of thy babe:
or with pity and forgiveness think of him,
as one at rest; rescued from ignominy: concealed
from the cruel mockery of scorn;
welcoming, at this moment, the approach
of his deliverer; and looking forwards
with humble hope to an eternity, in which
he will be recompensed for the trials of
10his mortal state, and pardoned for those
mistakes, into which his youth and frailty
betrayed him. I enclose the copy of my
will, with some of your dear letters: with
these you will receive your picture, but I
cannot spare it from my bosom, whilst my
trembling hand is able to raise it to my
lips, or do more than sign the name of
thy repentant, yet faithful,
A time was allowed me for my sorrow,
and recovery from a fever of much danger;
but which was, I believe, of use to my
general health; for I certainly was less liable
to illness, after this crisis. I experienced
something of those sentiments, which the
dying Duncan had suggested. I rejoiced
that he was at peace; and considered my
fate as ascertained. I could not know more
of grief, than I had experienced; and in
a submission, which necessity, and, I hope
also, religion enforced, I settled into a calm
11and resigned frame of mind. My extreme
bodily weakness favoured for a time this
more placid condition of my spirits; and
my recovery promised to my tender and
assiduous brother, a renewal of his comforts.
He soon mentioned Mr. Duncan’s
donation. He told me, “that knowing, as
I did, that both Keith and his wife were
dead; he thought it was much the most
prudent measure to let the property remain
on the stock books, as it had done from
the time of Mrs. Duncan’s committing her
money and her reputed son to his trust,
till such time, as he should become of age.
His quitting England within three or four
months of his being so,” continued my
brother, “prevented any settlement or
transfer of the stock, but he was mistaken
in his opinion of his fortune; for it amounts
to no more than two thousand pounds.”
I answered with sincerity that I regarded
it, whatever it might be, as a common
fund; and should leave to him the disposal
12of it as most useful to our common
comfort; and being persuaded that I
should not live long, I thought it could
not be better than as it was. He laughed
at my prophetic fears, assuring me that
the physician had told him I stood a better
chance of being well than when at
Kensington; and he left me with a cheerfulness,
which soothed me. His attentions
did not slacken. He saw with satisfaction
my returning activity, and frequently
observed, that I was never more
beautiful. By degrees he prevailed on my
reluctance to visit, and receive his friends;
and I as clearly discovered, that my brother
wished to see me married, as I manifested
a repugnance to the very idea of exchanging
my condition for any other. I
thus attained my twenty-third year.
From this period, the calmness of my
mind was disturbed, by the change I perceived
in my brother’s modes of life.
With anguish of soul I discovered, that he
13was tired of having a sister without ambition,
and a beauty, as she was called, on
his hands, who was deaf to flattery, and
who scorned infamy, however decorated.
I was stiled “a romantic idiot,” “a cold
and unempassioned statue, proud of a
form that was daily becoming useless.” I
became resolute; and told him, that with
any form I would endeavour to gain honest
bread. My spirit silenced him. He
begged my pardon, and pleaded his conviction,
that it would be in my power to
marry the libertine, whom he had conditioned
with on easy terms, though not less
profitable to his views. His fears, his regrets
at seeing me waste my youth in unavailing
sorrow; his belief, that my lover
would marry me at the death of an old
grandfather; his wishes to do so secretly,
were placed before me. I relented,
though without yielding to his dishonourable
views, and all was again peace between
us. But I no longer considered
14Philip Flamall, as the guardian of a sister’s
honour. Under this conviction I soon after
saw Mr. Flint, for the first time. He
came to the house, as it appeared, on business;
and finding Philip absent, seemed
desirous of waiting for his expected return;
he was accordingly conducted to me, as a
client of too much consequence to remain
unnoticed in the office. His age and respectable
appearance, induced me to shew
him every mark of respect. I recollected
my father’s opinion of Mr. Flint and his
family; and I tried to please him by my
attentions. My guest contentedly maintained
his post till my brother returned
at the dining hour; fortunately we were
alone that day; and Mr. Flint, who accepted
at once of the invitation, found
only a table at which economy presided; I
retired as soon as my office was finished;
but I was told that he meant to breakfast
with my brother the next morning. Unconsciously
I endeavoured to secure to
15Philip this wealthy client; and as it will
appear, I succeeded.
Some days after, my brother with much
seriousness informed me, that my modest
and composed deportment had pleased Mr.
Flint. “He has not only made his proposals
to me of jointuring you in four hundred
pounds per annum,” added he, “but
he has also, on hearing the precise state of
my fortune, engaged to befriend me, by
lending me a sum of money which may
turn to good account. He knew my father,
and he is no stranger to the difficulties
in which he left me involved.”—I attempted
to speak—“Hear me to the end,”
pursued he, “before you condemn a brother
to a goal. This man’s age, his retired
habits of life, and his fair character
in the world for his uprightness, renders
him more an object of veneration than of
love. You may recompense him for the
protection of the parent, by the kind offices
16of the daughter, whilst, by the union
he solicits, you are securing to yourself an
honourable name and independence, and
saving me from ruin; for I tell you plainly,
that I am already in a state of insolvency,
in regard to credit. I will have you to
consider of the answer you will commission
me to give Mr. Flint.” “It is not necessary
to deliberate,” replied I weeping bitterly.
“The knowledge of my real situation
will at once convince Mr. Flint, that
I am not a suitable companion for his
children, nor a becoming choice for him,
and without adverting to the folly, which
has led him to think of marriage, it will be
enough that he knows, that I am Duncan’s
widow.”
Never shall I forget my brother’s fury!
“Be a fool to the last!” cried he, “See
me a beggar! blast my character with your
own! sink me to a level with your highway-robber!
But know,” added he trembling,
17“that I can be as desperate as your
Duncan. I will not be an outlaw for one
purse! Can you be so weak as to think
any man will marry you, under the name
of Duncan? What has this miscreant to
do with the present question? He is dead,
the witnesses of your accursed marriage are
dead. You have persisted in bearing your
own name, and the character of an unmarried
woman. Oh Harriet! let me plead
for your youth, your helpless condition of
fortune; for your innocence, and for a
brother who loves you! Marry this worthy
man: and let me see you protected
from the dangers of the world!” I was
subdued. I forsook the path of rectitude,
and, as Harriet Flamall, married Mr. Flint,
who was three times my age.
CHAP. II.
18
We quitted London a few days after
the ceremony was performed, and I now
had leisure to repent of my weakness
and timidity. My introduction to my
husband’s family was humiliating and painful
to the last degree of suffering sensibility.
I was not only an intruder, but I
was an usurper of the rights I claimed;
and I felt that, in my assumed title of Mrs.
Flint was contained a reproach, which
covered me with confusion every time I
heard it pronounced. My only consolation
sprang from the resolution of devoting
my life to the man, whom I had thus deceived.
He was fond of me, and I studied
incessantly to make him contented with
his wife. I foolishly began to think that
19I should contribute to the slender stock of
domestic comfort which I found at Farefield
Hall. Mr. Percival Flint, and his
amiable sister Mary appeared to treat me
as one destined to enlarge their, and their
father’s happiness: even Miss Flint seemed
reconciled to the young mother-in-law,
who had, in no instance abridged her in
her authority. I was fond of flowers, and
already began to enjoy the amusement of
the garden. Mr. Percival one morning
entered my dressing room, where Lucretia
and myself were at our needle work, my
husband having taken his darling Mary
with him in his airing; his hands were
filled with some rare and beautiful plants,
and I found that this was a tribute to my
peculiar taste. My thanks followed, and
Percival withdrew, in order to see the plants
properly disposed of. “You have converted,”
observed Miss Flint with a malicious
laugh, “our grave and solemn
book-worm into a useful being. What a
20thousand pities it is! that Percival had
not seen you before his father:” as the
business is now managed he must remain
the “despairing shepherd;” for I think
the public cruelty prohibits the son-in-law
from marrying the mother-in-law, who in
many cases might console the poor widow.
“My countenance marked how little this
levity pleased me.” “Dear me!” pursued
she, “you need not look so offended,
or be displeased with so harmless a joke;
you cannot help Percival’s playing the
fool, nor prevent people’s thinking, that
the father at seventy is not altogether so
handsome as the son at twenty-three or
four: you might be tempted to acknowledge
this truth yourself were it not for
this unlucky relationship; you could not
in conscience deny that he is much better
qualified to succeed Mr. Duncan, than his
father.”—I heard no more; for yielding to
terror and surprise I fainted, and my successive
fits alarmed the family; and, as I
21supposed, moved to pity the cruel insulter,
who had brought them on me. She was
very assiduous and attentive to me during
the few days of my convalescence; and
with much humility begged my pardon,
saying that she had never entertained the
slightest suspicion prejudicial to me; but
that having heard of a disappointment of
a tender kind, which for a time had injured
my health and spirits, she frankly confessed
that she had attributed my choice
of her father to that cause; believing that
no woman with my beauty, and at my
age, would prefer for an husband a man
old enough for her grandfather. “I neither
intended to reproach you or that choice,
nor to hurt your feelings by naming the
gentleman in question,” added she.
“I simply wished to establish between us
a confidence and friendship which I conceived
might be useful to us both. I have
my secrets, my dear Harriet; and my heart
has suffered like your own, the pangs of
22unrequited, nay, abused love.” She proceeded
to inform me of Mr. Howard’s perfidy,
who, after having gained her affections,
had voluntarily given himself up to
the arts of her sister, who with a pretty
face, and the years of a child had basely
supplanted her in the opinion of a man,
whom she well knew was necessary to her
happiness; and who had from her very
cradle shown the greatest cunning and address
in rendering every one subservient to
her will; and she warned me at the same
time of her absolute power over my husband.
Subdued by conscience, and uncertain
of the extent of the information which
Miss Flint had gained, with the knowledge
of Mr. Duncan’s name, I accepted of her
apology; and still further tutored by my
brother, passively yielded to an authority,
with which I was unable to contend. I
tamely witnessed the treatment which
23poor Miss Mary received from her enraged
and implacable sister, and finally saw the
innocent girl ruined in her father’s love.
My husband was incensed by some letters
of Mr. Howard’s, which fell into Lucretia’s
hands; these were incautiously preserved
by the fond girl, and they were certainly
such, as Mr. Howard had done much
more wisely not to have written. I endeavoured
to soften my husband’s resentment;
and I should have succeeded; for
he loved his daughter Mary, even, if I may
be allowed to speak, to a degree of weakness;
and he was wretched because she
was unhappy. He spoke to my brother
on the subject, and discovered an inclination
to unity and forgiveness, requesting
him to employ his influence with Lucretia
to give up to a sister a man whom she
could not win for herself; adding, that notwithstanding
Mr. Howard had so highly
offended him, he would pass over every
thing for the sake of peace, and to content
24poor Mary. My brother instead of
executing this commission, sternly warned
me to take care of what I was doing.
“Were you any thing but what you are,”
said he, “you would perceive the danger
of your interfering with this virago; let her
alone: in time you will see her your slave
instead of your tyrant. Trust not to the
fondness of your husband; you see what
she has effected with her father in regard
to her sister. Judge of her power by this
proof of it, and avoid offending her: you
will ruin yourself, and serve no one.”
I believe it is not useless to mention
here, that on my marriage taking place my
brother took his degree as barrister, and
quitting his house in Red Lion Square,
took apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Whether his former clients forgot him, or
he them, I know not; but so it was; he
resided almost constantly at the Hall, and
became useful to Mr. Flint in return for
25the hospitality he found. Confined principally
to the care of amusing and nursing
my husband, whose health rapidly
declined under the perpetual vexations he
endured, I could not help perceiving that
my influence was sedulously watched;
and every time he expressed the regrets he
experienced from being prevented seeing
his child, I was suspected of having produced
those relentings of nature in her favour,
and was reproached by Mr. Flamall
for my folly in being blind to my own interest;
and I was told that I had nothing
to do but to attend to my husband. I perfectly
understood this language, and I did
attend to my husband; but it was not to
deceive, or insult him. He was too weak
to be advised by me; and unhappily feeling
at times the state of abject slavery, to
which his own weakness had reduced him,
he vented his resentments in peevish complaints,
and angry reproaches, that I was
too passive and indifferent to defend him
26against his tormentor; then, weeping like
an infant, he would beg me not to leave
him, for that I was his only comfort.
One day he mentioned the disposition
he had made of his property, adding, that
his children would think of him when he
was dead, although they had abandoned
him whilst living. “As to you, my poor
Harriet,” said he, “I have taken care to
leave you enough for your ambition,
though I can never repay you for the loss
of your health, which will be destroyed
by your attendance on me. You will find,
besides your jointure, a legacy of three
thousand pounds, with which you may
settle yourself comfortably when they send
you from hence: this sum is in your brother’s
hands, and he may perhaps recollect
when you shew him the bond, that he is
in arrears for the interest ever since your
marriage. He was a needy man, my Harriet,
when I lent him the money, and I
27warn you not to trust him with your affairs
when I am gone, although he is your
brother.” That very evening he was seized
with convulsions. I pass over an interval
of suffering which was terminated by his
death.
I will not attempt to describe my astonishment
on hearing the deceased Mr.
Flint’s will read. Let it suffice that its
contents were such as astonished every one.
My name only appeared in it, as having
been provided for at my marriage; and as
it was necessary to specify that the jointure
which had so provided for me, was to
revert to Miss Flint at my decease, on
failure of issue. I retired to my apartment
overwhelmed with grief and confusion.
Mr. and Mrs. Howard might be said to
have haunted my imagination; I had witnessed
their distress on hearing this unjust
will read; they were continually before
me; and innocent as I was, I felt my
28soul agonised by the internal conviction
which pressed upon me, that all was not
honourable, yet a suspicion of my brother
reached only to another enigma.
What was become of the bond? This
question was on my lips more than once;
but Philip had succeeded in making himself
more the object of my dread than confidence.
To retire from the Hall; to assert
the independence which I had so
dearly purchased; to share with the Howards
their father’s bounty, were the purposes
of my mind, and its support. In the
mean time I was treated with unusual
respect and attention by Miss Flint,
who repeatedly assured me, that the
object of her father’s affections would always
have claims on her own; that she
could not bear to see me so depressed by
an event which was to be expected in the
common course of nature; and that if I
thought I had not been sufficiently considered
for the sacrifices of health and pleasure,
29she was certain that her father’s
omission resulted from his firm persuasion
that we should always share the same abode
and domestic comforts. I blushed, and
replied, that I had every reason to be contented
with Mr. Flint’s generosity and affection.
“Had the provision allotted me,”
added I with more spirit, “been only a
fourth part of what it is, I should have
been satisfied; for I seek only independence.”
She looked disappointed, and changed
the subject of conversation.
My brother paid me a visit the following
morning; and having in vain requested
me to take an airing, grew angry.
“Wherefore is it, Harriet,” said he with
a petulant air, “that you affect to play the
Ephesian Matron with me? It is impossible
you can regret the death of a doating,
childish old man, worn out by sufferings,
at seventy and upwards? To what
purpose this seclusion, this dejection,
30these perpetual tears? One would imagine
you had already been entombed long
enough! But there is no remedy for a romantic
mind,” continued he with more
tenderness. “Any other woman but yourself
would have resented his want of generosity.
You are poorly recompensed, my
dear girl, for your watching, and for the
loss of your beauty.” “I have enough for
my wants,” answered I, “and much more
than I deserved.” “I was not of that opinion,”
replied he, “and soon after your
marriage gave Mr. Flint to understand
that I thought his widow was but slenderly
provided for, unless further considered.
He told me that he had thought as I did,
and had acted accordingly. He added
that you were the only comfort he had in
this world; that he had to thank me for
the blessing, and that I should find he had
not forgotten my kindness. I have reason,”
continued Philip, “to think that
he kept his word, and destroyed the bond
31he held against me; for it has not appeared.”
I concealed my face in the sopha-cushion,
otherwise he must have perceived
my astonishment. “This consideration
on his part,” continued he, “has been
however repaid on mine, for I have been
useful to him in my professional way, and
never charged him sixpence.” I sighed profoundly—“Come,”
cried he, assuming a
more cheerful air, “let us now look forward
to more pleasing prospects. You may
yet be mistress here.”
I was now told of his intrigue with Miss
Flint; of his unhappily being a married
man; and of the worthlessness of his wife,
who exercised over him an empire, in all
things save that of bearing his name. In a
word, Miss Flint’s critical situation was
brought forward, and my agency was demanded
as the only means of saving her
fame, and the infant from the disgrace of an
illegitimate birth. I listened to this discourse
32with disgust, and even horror; but, suppressing
my feelings, I told him with firmness,
that I had gone already too far into
concealments, not to discover the danger
of the road; that I meant to quit the
Hall, and had already formed my plans
for my future life. “These,” added I,
bursting into tears, “will not, nor can be
subservient to your, or Miss Flint’s views.”
“You will change your mind,” replied he
sternly, “when I tell you, that, what you
have refused to do from gratitude and affection
to a brother, may be thought expedient
to perform for your own safety. Miss
Flint has known the particulars of your
first marriage from the day you appeared
here as her father’s wife. Moreover she
insists upon it, that you have no legal
proofs of Duncan’s death, nor any claim
to your jointure, from its having been
granted under a name and character to
which you had no right. You will do well
to reflect on her temper, and on your condition,
33under a prosecution for bigamy.
My evidence, in your favour amounts
simply to the Dutchman’s verbal attestation
of being at Duncan’s funeral, and his
letters and will written at Surinam. These
with me are conclusive proofs; but I
know not how far they would be so
thought in a court at Doctor’s Commons;
nor with what consequences at the best,
your marrying when a widow under your
maiden name may be attended.”—“My
punishment is just,” exclaimed I, “I will
avow the truth, I will not take Mr. Flint’s
money. I will go where I may mourn
my lost happiness and die. I ask you
only to provide me an asylum for the moment.
I will not be a burden to you.”—Tenderness
was next tried, my ruin involved
his; the fate of a child who though
yet unborn, was urged with many tears;
Miss Flint’s generosity to me, her attachment
to him were not omitted. I was conquered.
“Do with me what you will,”
34said I mournfully, “only remember, Philip,
who it was, that spread the toils with
which my soul is encompassed; I cannot
live to see you miserable.” He employed
much sophistry to convince me that I was
engaged in the performance of a meritorious
work, inasmuch as it secured innocence
from shame, and saved the reputation of
Mr. Flint’s daughter: a woman who had
respected my secret, and whose gratitude
would bind her to me for life.
CHAP. III.
I will pass over the means of deceit and
imposition now employed. I became a nominal
mother to Philip Flint, and the measures
which had been adopted by removing
me to London, in order for my confinement,
35appeared to have secured Miss Flint’s
reputation. Thus betrayed by others, I
had some palliations to offer to my upbraiding
conscience. The innocent being
I had adopted as my own, pleaded still
more powerfully. I loved him with a parent’s
love, and I sheltered him from unjust
reproach and scorn. In this temper of
mind I became acquainted with Sir Murdoch
Maclairn. Alas! in the society of
truth and honour I was a dissembler! How
often have I forgotten, whilst listening to
his tale of woe, in which all was faithfulness,
that I was a deceiver! and whilst my
heart and tongue spoke his language, that
my life had been for months a falsehood,
my affections now betrayed me: I loved,
and I rashly hazarded the peace and the
honour of the man for whom I would have
died. I became his wife, and to his noble
heart do I appeal: he has found me his
faithful wife. May I not say yet more?
If to have emulated Sir Murdoch Maclairn
36in his virtues; if to have loved him
supremely; if to have known no joy in
which he has not shared; if to have shared
with courage his sorrows which were aggravated
to me; by the bitter conviction
that I alone deserved to be wretched; if to
have thus acted is to be a wife; then will
Sir Murdoch Maclairn pronounce me his
faithful, though erring wife. Witness for
me, my beloved son. To my Malcolm do
I appeal; to my support, my only hope
in this world! you have seen your mother’s
conflicts; you have shared in her
sorrows. Witness for me that I have lived
for no other purpose, but to soothe, to
watch, to sustain the father whom you
love and venerate. One incident which
occurred in your early life must be mentioned
here. You are no stranger, my
son, to the difficulties we had to surmount,
in consequence of your father’s resolution
to leave the Hall, and to reside in France.
I have frequently lamented before you this
37period of my life. We had, however, so
far conquered the opposition to our removal;
the time was fixed for our journey,
and even our trunks were preparing. Miss
Flint saw these preparations with unfeigned
grief; for let me be just, she knew
me, and she loved me. I left your dear
father busily engaged in examining some
papers, contained in a cabinet which had
been recently sent him from Scotland, and
with my work bag, sought the dejected
Lucretia. She was alone, in the bow parlour,
and weeping; I was employed in
consoling her by those arguments which
had been a thousand times repeated, when
Philip, your uncle, entered, and sullenly
took up a book without noticing me. In
a few minutes after, your father entered
the room, and with a placid air said, “I
have brought you something to see, and
admire;” and placing a small ebony box
richly inlaid with silver on the table before
us, he succeeded in exciting our curiosity.
38“The casket is nothing to its contents,”
said he, smiling at our admiration of the
box, and taking from it a shagreen picture-case
which he opened. “What say
you to this portrait?” said he shewing us
a pretty large miniature of a gentleman in
a Spanish habit; “did you ever see a more
manly, gracious countenance?” We examined
it, and to the praise due to the
artist, and the noble lineaments he had
preserved, was added our admiration of
the rich diamonds which encircled it. “It
ought to have a companion,” observed
your father, taking up another shagreen
case, similar to the one before us; but it
might have been as well if the picture of
the lady had never reached my hand; for
Harriet may be jealous of its superlative
beauty. He added, that the story of the
lovers was long and disastrous; and might
be the ground work of a tragedy not unlike
in many particulars to “the Fatal
Marriage.” “I remember,” continued
39he, “that when my father many years
since shewed me the two pictures, he
briefly mentioned some circumstances,
which touched me to the soul. He was
the friend intrusted with these portraits, and
with the care of seeking out an infant son,
who had been conveyed from Madrid when
no more than three days old; and who
had unaccountably eluded all the enquiries
which my father had, at that time, been
able to make. My absence from Scotland,
and my father’s death with other events,”
he sighed—“obliterated from my memory
this box and the particulars I have
mentioned. About a month since, it was
sent me, having been deposited by my
father previously to his death in the hands
of a minister of the Kirk of Scotland,
He on his death-bed sent it, to me, with
many injunctions to be careful of it.
Amongst several letters written in Spanish,
from which I can only discover the writers
to be of high rank, I found also a deposition
40made by my father, and addressed
to myself. He informs me, that having
traced, as he believes, the invaluable child
of his noble friends, he had sent his mother’s
picture to the faithful woman who
had been the only person privy to his birth,
and who passed for his mother. This I
was instructed to do, added my father;
and the test of the boy’s identity, rested on
the woman’s returning the picture, with
the name of her lady annexed to it. She
received it from faithful hands; for I was
already on that bed of death, from which
I am permitted to write this. She said she
should write to me from London, having
in her turn instructions to follow; and that
with the witnesses of her integrity she
should present herself before me with her
precious charge, and with transports of
joy make over to my care a youth worthy
of the Duke and Dutchess; she signed
herself S. Duncan. Philip advanced to
the table; he examined the picture attentively.”
41“Does your romance finish here?”
asked he, “So it appears,” replied my
husband, “otherwise that picture, and the
letters would have been reclaimed.” “I
should think no one will at present be
found to claim them,” observed Mr. Flamall.
“I fear so also,” answered Sir
Murdoch; “but when I am on the continent,
I shall lose no opportunity of giving
up my important trust to the family.”
“I would be d—d,” cried my brother
laughing, “if I went a league out of my
road on such an errand!” “Perhaps not,”
answered my husband coldly; “you may
not think it necessary.” He folded up the
portrait, and, replacing it, withdrew. “What
a pity it is,” cried Flamall, as he followed
him with his eye, “that Maclairn is not a
Spanish Grandee! His gravity would have
suited admirably with their dignity; and
his honour with their pride; some people,
and honest ones too, would think the diamonds
at least a lawful prize in this case;
42and without a doubt, they have long been
considered as lost. They would pay for your
journey, Harriet, or usefully decorate the
poor Baronet’s lady.” I made no answer,
for I was nearly fainting with emotion and
surprise; but finding Miss Flint well disposed
to reply for me, I left the room,
and retreated from the scene of altercation
which ensued, and which was but too
familiar to my ears. Your father’s illness
succeeded to this occurrence, my dear
Malcolm. I will hasten to inform you, and
him of the reasons which led me to give
this incident a place in my narrative.
It is now something more than five
years since, that I was called upon to feel
the full weight of the penalty affixed by
eternal justice, to the violation of truth
and rectitude of conduct. In the duties
before me, the remembrance of the unfortunate
Duncan had been softened down
into the placid hope of his being at peace.
43Miss Flint had apparently forgotten that
such a being had ever existed. A more
immediate concern engaged her mind, and
from her excessive fondness of her son,
grew up a dislike to you, and a jealousy
of your mother, which harassed me and
rendered her unhappy. Several circumstances,
which I need not recall to your
memory, proved to her, that the slave of
Mr. Flamall, and her own sheltered dependent,
was not without the animal instinct
of defending her offspring; and
even in these contests, the name of Duncan
never escaped her lips. This generosity
was not lost upon me, who had to
sustain the cruel and barbarous hints, not
unfrequently dropped by my brother, in
regard to a subject, too painful to be enlarged
upon; and which produced no
other effect, than that of making me, more
and more, the inmate of your father’s
apartment.
44I had, as usual, seen my beloved patient
quietly tasting that repose which his
agitated mind required; and I left him,
to take my accustomed walk in the avenue.
A radiant moon, with the soft
evening breeze, which had succeeded to
a sultry day, cheered me, and I sauntered
until you met me on your return from
your friends at the farm. We enjoyed
the scene around us; and, for some time,
conversed at our ease, on the seat round
the oak, but hearing the turret clock
chiming the three quarters after ten, I rose
to return to the house; when suddenly, a
wretched looking man, sprang from the
covert near us, and ran with swiftness
down the avenue. You instantly dissipated
my alarm, by telling me it was a
sick sailor, whom you had met and relieved
that afternoon, on your way to Mr.
Wilson’s. He had, it appeared, been
shipwrecked, and was begging his way to
his friends in London. You finished
45your little story, by adding, that you
supposed he had strolled into the avenue,
and had fallen asleep. We parted for
the night, and I thought no more of
the mendicant sailor. The following
evening I again repaired to the avenue,
it was about eight o’clock, and again I
took my seat at the oak. Again, did I
see this miserable object slowly advancing
towards me; his ghastly countenance excited
my compassion, not my fears, and I
rose to meet him, with some silver in my
hand. He stopped, leaning himself against
a tree; and wiping his face, as though
faint with hunger, gazed upon me. “Do
not advance,” cried I, quickening my pace,
“honest friend I am coming to give you a
trifle.” He groaned, dropped a sealed
packet, and darted from me with speed.
Terrors too powerful for language assailed
me! I gasped for breath, and, for
some minutes, stood motionless, gazing
46at the fleet and dreadful spectre; for such
he seemed. At the stile he turned; and
from its elevation still saw me, he struck
his breast and head; then vanished. A
sudden conviction, shot through my confounded
senses; I seized the parcel; it
was addressed to Lady Maclairn, and in
the well remembered characters of Charles
Duncan. I placed it in my bosom; and
was, I believe, indebted to the air for the
preservation of life; for I did not faint, although
unconscious of time. Your cheerful
voice, Malcolm, as you approached me
singing, roused me, and I attempted to
rise; but again I sunk on the seat I had
quitted, and burst into tears. You saw
my emotion, my dear son, and in reply
to your enquiries I made the usual answer,
for the dejection of my spirits, adding,
that I had again seen the vagabond
in the avenue, at a distance, and not
chusing to advance, had kept near the
house, not altogether without fear. “I
47met him,” returned you, “and told him
that he was trespassing, and that he must
not be seen in the avenue. He said, he
hoped he should be many miles from it in
twenty-four hours, meaning to pursue his
route before sun-rise the next morning.
He begged my pardon; he had been induced
to seek the relief his miseries needed,
but finding the lady was alarmed had
retreated. I commended him for his attention,
and rewarded him with some silver.”
“He has done me no harm,” replied
I, “for I was not much disposed to
ramble, feeling languid before I left the
house.” I was no sooner arrived there,
than I retired to my room; and with agonies,
which it is beyond my power to describe,
I read as follows,
“To Lady Maclairn.”
“The poor, the outraged, the vilified
Charles Duncan lives to proclaim his
wrongs! to pour forth his sorrows before
48the only being on earth who will pity
him! He lives to redeem his honour
from the disgrace and eternal infamy, of
having deserted the woman, whom in the
presence of his Maker, he vowed to cherish
and protect. He lives to take vengeance
on his oppressors! He lives to
behold thee once more! and then death
will close his account here! The grave
will be his bed of repose! Heaven will,
in its own time, explain to him, wherefore
he existed; and to what purpose he
has suffered!!!
“I am composed, my Harriet. I have
seen thee, I have heard thy gentle voice!
listened, in breathless silence, to the pure
effusions of thy spotless mind; heard my
Harriet, my wife, my all that Heaven has
given me! speak to her son, praise his filial
duty to his father; heard that that parent
had been smitten, stricken by the
hand of adversity! Heard her call him,
49“her dear Maclairn,” her helpless, her
unfortunate husband! Was this the language
to heal my broken spirit? No:
but it was that which has fettered every
tumultuous passion of my soul! I would
not for worlds speak to you, Harriet;
I would not for worlds approach you!
No: I would refuse your offered love!
What! brand with infamy thy spotless
name! Sink the honourable wife, the
virtuous mother to be the sharer of my
wretched condition! The companion of
a reputed robber, a worthless vagabond;
of a being who can claim no affinity but
to the earth he treads! No; Harriet,
thy Duncan is not yet so poor, so abject!
Scorned, and sunk as he may be in your
eyes, he yet proudly maintains his claims
to the recompense of long suffering and
patience. This is not Duncan’s theatre of
glory! But he has before him an inheritance,
and a home; and he has only to
press forward to attain it.”
50“The wife of Sir Murdoch Maclairn;
the mother of his children; the prop and
comfort of his life is in my eyes, encompassed
by an host of angels. Shall the
wretched Duncan invade the blessings of
another? No, Harriet. He has beheld you
for the last time. Live and die a suitable
inhabitant for a better world! Live to be
reverenced by your children’s children!
Live to be called the Matron’s pride, and
your sex’s boast. Only think of me, as
a man who was once thy love; as one incapable
of forgetting you. Think of me
as one, who would sooner have been what
he has been cruelly believed to be, than
have basely left thee to the tortures of
doubt and suspense, and abandoned to an
insulting world. Think of me only as an
unfortunate man, as one whom you may
pity, as one who will soon be removed:
as one whose heart——
“Again I take up my pen. Again the
tumult of my senses is calmed. I can now
51weep. I can thank God that your brother
is absent. I can pray, my Harriet!
I can see the God of mercy allaying the
storm, and smoothing my passage to himself.
Farewell: I have only to see, that you
are in possession of my justification; and
then shall seas again separate us, whilst
my soul still fondly clings to thee. Farewell!
Farewell!
“Charles Duncan.”
“You have not forgotten the hour of
our separation, Harriet! You cannot have
obliterated from your memory my agonies,
on trusting to the winds and waves my
wife, my hopes, my all! You cannot have
forgotten my vows of love, of fidelity, of
truth. What must have been the artifices,
the machinations employed to beguile
you of your confidence in Charles
Duncan! But have I not before me an
evidence of that subtle mischief which
man, when lost to all that is manly, can
52effect? Was thy innocence a match for
villany? Thy weakness an armour against
cruelty? What have not been the means
employed to ruin thee as well as myself!
Oh Being of infinite justice! to thee do
I look up for a solution of all my doubts!
Let me still hold fast my only consolation;
my Harriet, my wife stands blameless in
thy sight, and in my bosom. She is still
cherished as the faithful, but deluded, perhaps
fatally deluded, victim of baseness
and cruelty.
“Again farewell!”
This letter had evidently been written
after my alarm in the avenue by the
wretched writer’s sudden disappearance.
His narrative was detached from it, and
bore several dates, as will appear; may
heaven in its mercy lend a portion of its
never-failing compassion to those to whom
the miserable Harriet now consigns it!
May they pause from time to time, and
53contemplate the noble ruin thus exhibited
to their view! For Maclairn’s justice will
acknowledge it to be such; and he will
applaud the woman, who, although shrinking
from the consciousness of guilt, dares to
avow her veneration, and love for virtue.
She must indeed be sunk, who could erase
from her memory a man like Charles Duncan;
and Maclairn will understand and
fret, that the heart would be unworthy of
his, which should not have room for suffering
and oppressed innocence, and a memory
faithful in its tribute of sorrow and
sympathy, gratitude and admiration, for a
man, who not only loved her, but also
her fame, better than himself. Yes: he
will acknowledge that his Harriet, even in
these tears, which she gives to suffering and
departed worth—but let me hasten to the
conclusion of a task which duty prescribes,
before my sinking spirits faint.
CHAP. IV. — Charles Duncan’s Narrative.
54
London.
I will be calm. Is it fit for a wretch like
me to flinch at the sight of inanimate objects?
To tremble, and faint in a street,
because once trodden by my feet, when
youth and health glowed in my cheek, and
hope in my bosom? Is it for me, familiar
with misery, to droop at the view of that
abode in which I once for a moment grasped
the fleeting form of happiness, gazed
on her image, and fixed her lineaments on
my heart, and then I saw her vanish?
No: Duncan ought to have a soul braced,
an arm nerved for the work before him.
55His Maker has not forgotten the work of
his hand. He will triumph, even in this
world! Oh memory, unfold thy tablets!
Show to my injured wife the man she loved,
the man she has wept as worthless!——and then!!—
Is it needful for me to recall to my
Harriet’s recollection, our mutual doubts
of Flamall’s honour and principles; as these
appeared in his conduct to me, they were
grounded on his evading every enquiry I
made relative to the deceased Mrs. Duncan’s
effects and papers. But I had still
more convincing proofs of his real character
than I discovered to his sister. I saw,
that in his professional line, he had few
clients of respectability, and that he was a
rascal. Determined on my conduct as
soon as I could legally call on him to account
for his, I simply declared to you my
purpose of quitting his house the day I
should come of age; and you concurred
in this plan. Is it necessary to remind
56you of those tender fears and apprehensions
which resulted from our union! Oh
no! you cannot have forgotten them,
nor my arguments for your immediately
leaving a house, in which you were subjected
to perpetual alarms. You will also
recollect, that we both believed our liberality
to the Keiths had bound them to our
interest; particularly Mrs. Keith, who
had gratefully acknowledged my gift of
Mrs. Duncan’s apparel, and the little advantages
which her slender purse derived
from her being my laundress.
Passing near her house one morning,
just before you left London with your
friends, the Hatchways, a dray-man so
completely bespattered me, that, in order
to shun the laughter of the diverted
witnesses of this mischance, I took refuge
at Mrs. Keith’s: knowing that I could there
change my linen, &c. During her kind
offices about me, I observed, that she had
been weeping; and, whilst waiting for my
57coat to dry, her dejection led me to ask
her what had disturbed her. “Only the
old story,” answered she, weeping anew, “I
am weary of my life; my husband was never
good; but of late he is a brute, and beats
me, because I cannot go to market without
money. God help me, I am too honest
for Patrick!” “He ought to husband his
money better,” replied I, “he is in constant
employment with Mr. Flamall I find,
and he is a good copier.” “He will never
find that any thing he gains from that
quarter will thrive,” answered she, colouring
with resentment; “the good
old proverb is against him. What is
got by the devil’s means will go as it
came.” “You ought not to blame Mr.
Flamall,” observed I, prolonging my toilet,
“that he cannot teach your husband
to take care of the money he earns: Flamall
is not a spendthrift.” “He is too cunning
for you to understand,” replied she,
nodding her head significantly, “but he
58will soon show the cloven foot; what is
to become of you, when your wife wants
a cradle for her poor babe? Patrick swears
that I shall not take her in: the Lord help
you both; there will be such doings, and
no Mrs. Duncan to stand by you with
her purse!” “I defy Mr. Flamall,” answered
I, “and will soon let him know that
I can protect my wife; in less than four
months I shall be master of my dear mother’s
little provision, and with that, and
industry, my Harriet shall have a cradle
for our infant.” She shook her head despondingly,
“Poor soul!” said she; “it
is perhaps happy for her that she is removed,
she loved you better than many real
mothers do their children; it would have
grieved her to see you set fast so young.”
“How came you to know this secret?”
asked I, without betraying my emotions.
“Because I heard Mrs. Duncan say, that
she was not your mother,” answered she,
“when she gave her dying instructions to
59your honest guardian with the pocket book
for you, in case you outlived her: besides
this, I could say more if I pleased; but I
do not wish to bring Patrick to the gallows,
he will find the road without my help!
see his tender marks,” added she, weeping,
and uncovering her bosom. It was
bruised. My compassion soothed her; but
she became more guarded; and only confessed
that I had not been well used, adding,
“I have said enough to you, and
should my husband know it, he would
murder me. But the time may come, when
you will be able to take care of me. I
have not forgotten the black pocket book,
nor the letters on it, studded with silver,
nor what is more, the bank notes it contained.
I know that ten hundred make a
thousand, as well as the lawyer. Betty
Keith is neither deaf nor blind.” In vain
did I urge her to be more explicit. “So I
will, when I am upon oath,” answered
she; “but you can do nothing at present,
60and you must be gone. My husband may
return, and he will suspect I have been
prating, as he calls it, when I do but turn
the tongue in my head.” I took the hint,
and giving her a guinea, left the room.
You were on the eve of your little voyage,
ill and dejected, and I forbore to add to
your inquietude. Your departure followed,
and Duncan’s fate advanced to the crisis
which terminated his hopes and prospects
in this world. A few days passed. My
bosom was relieved of its fears for your
safety; you wrote in spirits; and you concurred
in your second letter, in my plan of
removing you from Y——th to the north;
and from thence declaring your marriage
to your brother. At this juncture I received
an anonymous letter; it was dated
from Helvoetsluys, the language English,
with foreign idioms. The writer signified
that he was deputed by my parents to inform
me, that the mystery in which my
birth had been involved was removed;
61but for many cogent reasons, which should
be explained, he was commissioned to
meet me at Harwich; that he should perhaps
be there as soon as his letter; but
at all hazards in a few days, and should
wait my arrival at the Ship inn. “Be
only anxious,” added he, “to be punctual
to this rendezvous. Measures for
your future destination in the world will
result from this interview. Be on the reserve
with those about you, and above
all, trust not the man who calls himself
your guardian; he has an eye over him
which he little suspects, and he will have
an account to settle, not with the obscure
and friendless Charles Duncan, but with
an arm of power, which shall crush him,
as the spoiler of the widow and the orphan.”
You will imagine that my whole soul
was fixed on accomplishing the journey
to Harwich. It so entirely engaged my
thoughts, that I spoke of my intention to
62Simons, saying I should ask Mr. Flamall
for a week or ten days holiday, in order to
meet a friend at Harwich. “He will refuse
you,” replied he, “for he wants you
in the office to supply his own absence.
He can find leisure for his own jaunts,
but he thinks not of us.” “I will not be
refused,” replied I eagerly, “then do as I
do in such cases,” said he; “Send your
trunk off before you, and take a French
leave when you can, in order to bring
home your portmanteau: there will be no
end of his objections!”
I availed myself of Simons’s counsel, and
sent a small portmanteau to the Harwich
coach that evening. On the following
morning I civilly requested your brother
to spare me ten days or a fortnight, explaining
to him my wishes in part, by saying,
that I expected to meet a friend at
Harwich, and we should probably make a
little excursion together. Good God,
how delightful were my prospects! for
63these were bounded by seeing you and announcing
my parents to you! Some
questions, for which I was prepared, followed:
reluctance gradually yielded.
“He thought it but an idle expence; but
I had been frugal, and therefore he should
not refuse me;” and, opening his desk,
he paid me my quarterly stipend of twenty
guineas, which had been due nearly a
month. He soon after told Simons, that
he was going with a party of friends to
Windsor, and should not return for a day
or two; then carelessly asking me, when
and how I intended to journey, he left us;
shaking me by the hand, and with a Judas’s
smile, he bade me “remember
that my purse had not the virtue of Fortunatus’s.”
Simons boasted much of a
horse which a friend of his let out; and so
strongly pointed out to me the advantages
of travelling in this mode, that I went
with him to the livery stable, in order to
see the animal thus recommended. It had
64been a fine one; but had been ridden
down, and I should have given up my
project of riding on horseback but for his
persuasions. He was certain the beast
would travel well with me, and return better
than when he set out; the terms were
easy, and to please Simons, I consented to
please his friend, the proprietor of the
horse. Amongst the various arguments
he used was one, which had probably
turned the scale. I could run down to
Rumford that night; the horse had been
at the manger the whole day, and the remainder
of the road to Harwich was light
work. This project was adopted; but a
heavy rain stopped me for some hours;
and it was nine o’clock in the evening
when I mounted and parted with my officious
friend at the livery stable. The
clouds were dispersed, and the moon,
though not in her zenith, favouring me,
I proceeded on gently. The horse was
stiff with fatigue, and I found that Simons
65had “taken me in,” to use his own
quaint language, I was within half a mile
of Woodford, a village on the Epping
road, when I was accosted by name, by a
man whom I recollected having seen once
or twice in your brother’s office. He
checked the bridle, and civility obliged
me to stop. Enquiries after Mr. Flamall’s
health, were followed by wondering to
meet me so late on such a road. “I may
wonder in my turn,” answered I, “for you
have more to apprehend from this damp
evening than I have. But you will excuse
me, I am hastening to Stretham, still some
miles from hence.” I spurred my horse and
bowing, wished him a good night. He
shouting after me, “Look to your pistols,
young man.” I had pistols with me, but
I needed them not. I proceeded unmolested
in my journey till within a mile of
Rumford; when the miserable beast I
rode making a trip, fell; and I received a
contusion on my knee, that, for a time,
66prevented my rising, and totally disabled
me from mounting again. With much
difficulty I reached an inn at Rumford,
leading the horse, and in my wish to find
shelter, I became indifferent to accommodations.
I took the first house that
was open, and found, with civility, a bed,
to which I instantly repaired. The next
morning I found the injury I had received
too serious to allow me to prosecute
my journey, without hazard, on Simons’s
vaunted horse. I therefore sent the beast
home, with a note to Simons, mentioning
my accident, and the necessity I was under
of pursuing my journey in a post
chaise, as it was absolutely my purpose to
be at Harwich on the Saturday. My
hostess, had, in the mean time, with much
humanity applied her infallible nostrum
to my knee; and, on my quitting her the
following day, she generously insisted on
my taking some of the ointment with me,
assuring me, that by being repeated, it
67would relieve not only the tumour, but the
pain. In this point, she was however
mistaken, and, on reaching the appointed
inn at Harwich, I could not stand on my
legs. The waiter, who assisted me into
the house, asked me, whether my name
was Duncan; and being answered in the
affirmative, he proceeded to tell me, that
a person had called twice, within the hour,
to enquire for me. Not doubting but
this was my incognito friend, and that he
would return to the house, I ordered him
to be conducted to me, and dismissed
the man for some coffee. During this
interval of suspense and curiosity my knee
solicited my attention; it was extremely
painful, and I had recourse to my Rumford
landlady’s specific for a bruise. Whilst
employed in applying most assuredly what
most assuredly augmented the evil, the
door of the apartment was suddenly
opened; and to my inconceivable surprise
Simons hastily entered. “You are come
68at last,” said he with an oath, “I have
been on the rack these two hours.” “And
I for near four and twenty,” replied I, interrupting
him, and directing his attention
to my employment; “but what brings
you hither?” He grasped my hand with
eagerness, and in a low voice told me,
that he came to save my life. I laughed,
I believe, for he swore most horridly, and
concluded by saying, that he had not
time to see me play the fool. “The
person,” added he, “commissioned by
your father to meet you here, is no stranger
to me. Let it suffice, I am in his secret.
He is, it may be, at this instant dying at
Helvoetsluys of a fever, and I am ordered
to conduct you there to him; all is prepared;
and you must go this instant on
board the packet. There is not a moment
to lose.” I hesitated, for I thought
of my Harriet; but he urged me with a
vehemence that confounded my deliberations;
and concluded by saying, that my
69honour, and even my life, depended on
my following him. With his help and
a porter’s I was conveyed to the water-side,
and there found the boat, in which we
reached the packet, then, getting under
sail, I threw myself on the bed reserved
for me, subdued by the pain in my knee,
and soon after was seized with the sea sickness.
I saw no more of my companion
that night: and learned that, fearing to
share in the common malady, he preferred
being on deck. It was with difficulty that
I supported myself to the public house at
the Sluys; but overcome, as I was, with
pain, I failed not to remark, that Simons
spoke the Dutch language fluently. “It
is well I can,” answered he roughly to my
observation, “for your friend is not here;
we must proceed to Rotterdam; and you
must bear up as well as you can; the passage-boat
is an easy conveyance for you.
This boat was shared by others as well as
ourselves; and with an irritation of mind,
70as great as my bodily sufferings, we proceeded
to Rotterdam; and on reaching
the hotel, I fainted. On recovering my
senses, which had been suspended for
some time, I saw a well dressed man engaged
in giving me succour, and I concluded
that this was the person I was to
meet. On asking Simons whether he was
the dying man I had been led to expect,
he answered, that he was a surgeon,
and that my knee required some better
remedy than I had applied. I submitted
to his orders, and was carried to
bed. At length Simons was at leisure to
satisfy my curiosity. He began the subject
himself, by observing with some ill-humour
that it was unlucky—I omit the
epithets, my Harriet, with which he interlarded
even his expressions of kindness,
that, what with the indisposition of my
friend, and my accident, which he found
from the surgeon would unavoidably detain
me some days in my bed, he should
71be forced to prolong his stay. I have written
to Amsterdam,” continued he, “where
I find the sick man was advised to remain;
to-morrow or the next day, we shall have
letters.” Need, I say, in what manner this interval
was filled up by me! I wrote you a circumstantial
account of these various events;
and the fond wish of making my Harriet
easy under a separation so unexpected, imparted
to my bosom a portion of those
hopes which were necessary for her support
as well as mine. This letter I intrusted
to the surgeon’s care, not chusing
to employ Simons. I made him comprehend,
that it was of importance to me;
and, with a good-natured smile, he satisfied
me, that he would faithfully discharge his
trust. It was under cover to Mrs. Keith.
Too fatally certain is it, that you never
saw this letter! In the mean time, my
soul was on the rack, from having no intelligence
of you. Again, and again, I
wrote to Mrs. Keith, and to you. I had
no letters, and I began to suspect the surgeon
72had given Simons my letters, instead
of putting them into the post-office. In
the mean time his attention to my accommodations
and health had nothing in them
to surprise me; for he constantly talked
of his being commissioned by the
gentleman at Amsterdam, to be careful
of his “precious charge,” and sometimes
he translated passages from his letters expressive
of the importance of my person,
and his anxiety in not being in a state to
attend me himself. I was now on crutches,
and free from pain; and I was told that it
was proper for me to proceed to Amsterdam.
I decidedly refused, saying that I
was determined to return to England; and
he might inform his correspondent of my
resolution, it being indispensibly necessary
for my peace, to have news from thence.
“I will furnish you with a newspaper,”
said he gravely; “that will, I trust, make
you change your mind; but it may not
be amiss to prepare you for news that will
73surprise you more than you are aware.”
He began his narrative of the highway
robbery charged on me, and finished
by placing before me the article in the
day’s paper, which, with a detail of the
particulars, included a description of my
person, situation, and even the initials of
my name, and of the master with whom
I served as clerk. You will judge, my Harriet,
of the effect which this intelligence
produced. I solemnly swore that no power
on earth should prevent my immediately
appearing and confronting the base and false
accuser. “You know best,” replied
Simons, “the proofs with which you can
invalidate this man’s positive oath.” But
I would advise you rather to secure such a
condition of fortune, as will of itself, with
nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand,
prove that you are slandered. “In a
word,” continued he, with a serious air,
“I have had my instructions from those,
who will take care of your honour better
74than you are able to do yourself. Your
parents are rich and powerful, and, trust
me, more than one will be called to a
strict account for their conduct in regard
to you.” I was still resolved on my measures;
for my wife’s deplorable condition
solely engaged me. “It is well, Sir,”
observed he, with a tone of authority, “I
shall proceed without you, and even if it
be necessary to Cadiz, and inform your
noble parents, that you preferred a gibbet
to them. But you are a simpleton, Duncan,”
added he, with more kindness, “I
know your motive for this headstrong
folly. Will your appearance, and the
charge which will be brought against you,
lessen the distress of the girl you love?”
I started. “I know more than you think
of that business also,” continued he;
“and I advise you to write to her, and
instantly make your way to your parents.
You will then be able to offer her the protection
she needs.” I burst into tears, and
75reproached him with having stopped my
letters. He vehemently denied the charge;
adding, “that he pitied Miss Flamall, and
was better pleased to serve her than to injure
her.”
Unable to extract more from a man who
hourly assumed with me more of respect
as well as of authority, I yielded to his
control. I was still lame and helpless; and
except the diminished sum with which your
brother had furnished me, I had no resources
for my premeditated plan. Simons
soothed me, by conducting me to the post-office,
where I deposited a letter for you,
and his orders taken, to forward all letters
to our address at Cadiz, to a house of
business sufficiently ostensible to gain him
attention with the people at the office.
We prepared immediately for our departure
for Amsterdam, when he entered the
apartment with an opened letter in his
hand. “I thought how it would be,” said
he, “your cursed accident, and the delay
76it has occasioned will oblige me to go
the whole voyage with you. Your father’s
agent is too ill for the voyage; he has sent
me bills of “exchange;” he displayed the
notes, and urged me to lose no time. He
is, I find, in the country; and dangerously
ill. However, I am embarked, and
will not desert you. At Amsterdam I was
again surprised. This Proteus spoke the
Spanish tongue well, and in his conversation
with the captain of a Spanish ship
bound for Cadiz, I perceived that he assumed
the gravity and stateliness of a
Spanish grandee. On the man’s leaving
us, after having settled the terms for our
accommodation, I mentioned my surprise,
on finding him so qualified for a traveller.”
“I lived on the continent some time in
my young days,” answered he. “I was
private secretary to an ambassador, who in
his lack of brains, forgot to pay me for the
five years use he made of mine; he taught
me a lesson however which I wanted,”
continued he with a malicious grin,
77“namely, to live by my own wit; and to
regard every man either as a fool or a
knave.” It required very little judgment,
my dear Harriet, to determine the class to
which Simons belonged; yet in spite of his
habitual vulgarity, and coarse language,
I hourly perceived that he had moved in a
different sphere, and could at his pleasure
assume the gentleman. He spoke of me
as a Spaniard by birth, and by the respect
he showed me, taught those about me to
consider me as of importance; performing
the part of my governor; and making no
secret of my having been a stranger to my
rank, parents, and country, from nearly
the hour I was born. These hints were
needless, to stimulate a curiosity constantly
on the fullest stretch. To my questions
I received only one answer: “I am bound
to secresy, and it is for my interest to be
faithful. Have patience, time will discover
all to you.” Thus goaded on, and
convinced of my inability of securing him
78in my interest; having exhausted my own
little stock of money, and depending, in
a strange country upon Simons for pecuniary
assistance, I left Amsterdam without
having received letters from you; and
in the anguish of my soul I sought relief
from the hope of meeting with protection,
and being placed in a situation to succour
you; for I made no doubt of your brother’s
interference with your wishes to write
to me. Our navigation was for a time
pleasant. The gentle breezes which filled
our sails soon exempted me from sea sickness;
rest restored my knee, and my hours
were beguiled by my assiduously studying
the Spanish language; for which, Simons
having proposed it for my amusement, I
had purchased a few needful books.
At this period, however, one incidental
cause of sorrow was added to my oppressive
burden. Two or three days after your
departure from town, I had began to bathe,
trusting to its relieving me from a portion,
at least, of that languor which I experienced;
79and, cautiously guarded in all
that related to my Harriet, had taken your
picture from my bosom, and placed it in
my port-folio with your letters, which I
carefully kept locked in a large trunk, with
articles that were not of every day’s use.
I had seen on reaching Helvoetsluys
that this trunk made the greatest part of
our baggage; and on noticing it to Simons,
he replied, that he expected my thanks
for his zeal in my service in bringing it,
as he supposed it was kept as lumber in
my room, and that I should have no objection
to a change of linen. To this
necessity I had been hitherto a stranger,
and the trunk remained corded till I was
settled in my cabin on board the Spanish
ship. The treasure it contained was too
precious to be forgotten. I searched for
it in vain. Neither your letters nor your
portrait were to be found. I did not conceal
my suspicions, nor my distress from
Simons, who as usual, with the most horrid
80imprecations affirmed that he had not opened
the trunk; nor had any other motive
in removing it, but that of contributing
to my comforts and amusement, knowing
that I had some books in it. To contest
with Simons was a vain attempt. I was
silenced, and bore this trial, to use my
master’s words like a “whining puppy.”
Yet in spite of himself I perceived that he
had an interest in preserving my health
and tranquillity, and that he never ceased
to recommend to me patience; hinting
continually that I should soon be in a condition
to take ample vengeance on those
who had injured me, and to protect you,
who had been so unjustly dealt with.
These conversations with his avowed good
will for you, and pity for me had their
effect.
We were within thirty or forty leagues
of our post when we were boarded by a
large, well-armed Algerine corsair, and
taken without resistance; for such was
81the inferiority of our force, that it was
not possible for us to escape. Surprised
and confounded by an event for which I
was altogether unprepared, my compassion
was notwithstanding exerted in comforting
my terrified companion. I strove
to encourage him by the same hopes which
had calmed my own spirits; and with confidence
I assured him, that as subjects of
Great Britain we should be enlarged at
Algiers; and that we had only to apply
to the British consul resident there, in
order to be protected. In this expectation
we were cruelly disappointed, by the measures
which the pirate pursued; who
from motives we could not fathom, after
having treated me with extraordinary lenity,
and Simons without rigour, landed us with
great circumspection during the night at
some distance from the harbour; and to
our amazement and consternation we were,
with our chests, placed in a covered vehicle
not unlike a waggon, and without loss of
82time conducted up the country. We were
manacled and vigilantly concealed from
every eye by those who were charged with
us; who still maintained their claims to
our gratitude, by offering us no violence
or harshness. I had not been much surprised
at seeing Simons relapsing into the
pusillanimity he had betrayed in the first
moments of our capture; but I was astonished
to find that, with his grief for himself
and the most bitter execrations on his
folly, he bemoaned my hard fate in terms
which I little expected from him. “Take
courage,” said I, willing to relieve his sorrow,
“you have nothing to reproach yourself
with in this misfortune, and I am
sorry, that your good intentions and zeal
for my service have led you into this difficulty;
but we may yet find the means of
applying to the consul, or purchasing our
freedom. Do not despair.” “I must,”
replied he with a look of horror. “I have
been a d——d rascal, and your destruction,
83my poor boy. If you were to forgive
me, God never will; and this is only
the beginning of my punishment.” He
wept in agonies, and I was alarmed. “I
can neither be useful to you, nor yet forgive
you,” observed I, desisting from my
ineffectual attempts to soothe his agitations,
“’till I am more in your confidence.
Tell me what have you done to
injure me, and trust to my principles,
which command me to forgive an offending
brother.” “By G—d,” exclaimed he,
“this is too much! I cannot bear it, villain
as I am! But you shall know all; and
you shall see that at least I never intended
to harm you, though it is but too true
that my business in your concerns was to
serve myself.”
CHAP. V. — Charles Duncan’s Narrative continued.
84
I will not, my dear Harriet, attempt to
give you, in the language of a reprobate,
the confession of one; let it suffice, that
I faithfully communicate to you, the information
which he, in the course of our
three days journey, poured into my appalled
ear; and when his recital is cleared
from his oaths, it will be as follows:
“You may date your ruin,” said he, “from
the hour you were at Grantham, in your
way to London with Mrs. Duncan, your
supposed mother.” I started. “Let me
at once tell you,” observed he, “that I
know more of your history than you do
yourself; therefore do not interrupt me.
You met there a very handsome courteous
85lady, who took the coach with you from
thence; she called herself Mrs. Peachley;
she is Flamall’s wife, and sister to Keith.
You know her kindness in recommending
your mother to Keith’s lodgings. Your
indisposition on the journey was declared
the following day. You could not rise,
and Mrs. Duncan, with much alarm, recommended
you to Mrs. Keith’s care, and
lamented the necessity which forced her
from your bed side, for an hour or two,
having an appointment which could not
be delayed. At her return, she found
you much worse, and a physician was
summoned. For several days and nights
this good mother of yours never left you.
You were every hour nearer the grave;
and overcome by her fatigue and terror,
she got the start of you; for she was dead
and buried before your eight and twenty
days fever had fairly left you. During
this time, when you were, for the greater
part, more fit for Bedlam, or for your coffin,
86Mrs. Duncan was kindly visited by
Mrs. Peachley, who, having called to see
her relations, discovered that she had
found a prey worth pursuing; and finding
that her brother had inmates not likely to
cavil at the price of his lodgings, she redoubled
her attentions, by several times
calling on Mrs. Duncan, to enquire after
you, and, as she said, to see that the
Keiths were assiduous in their attendance.
Your poor mother, who knew not a being
in London; but the person she had met
the day of her arrival, and who was out of
town, mentioned, with extreme distress,
that in an hour of such difficulty, she had
the additional misfortune of finding, that
her only friend had left London and was
gone abroad. This confidence became
more enlarged, in proportion as your danger
was more imminent. She incessantly
lamented the absence of this Mr. Joseph
Jago; and in her illness, she consulted
Mrs. Peachley, on the means she should
87take to secure to you the little property
which her death would give you in case
you survived her. Mr. Flamall’s good
offices were employed; and she made her
will, which was witnessed by her two
doctors. You were left to Mr. Flamall’s
care, and your money into the bargain,
until such time as his trust should be set
aside by your natural guardians, who lived
abroad; or until you were of age, in case
these relations did not appear. Hitherto
all went well, but Keith’s wife, either from
hatred of her sister, or the spirit of contradiction
common to her, thought it a good
opportunity of acting like an honest woman;
she was careful of you during your
delirium; and also attentive to your poor
mother. Your generosity when you left
her house for Mr. Flamall’s, confirmed her
good dispositions towards you. I had not
been without my suspicions, that the cautions
which kept me in the back ground all
this time, were not used without solid reasons;
88Flamall, however, in the executive
trust, which had thus devolved on him;
brought home with him on the night of
the funeral, some papers which belonged
to the deceased Mrs. Duncan, in order for
their better security as he said, and he
then mentioned you and your condition,
adding, that he did not think you could
survive your mother; and that he had no
clue to any of your connexions. He spoke
of your little property in the funds; and
the suspicion he entertained, that Mrs.
Duncan was not your real mother.” “Why
do you not examine her letters?” asked
I. “I have,” answered he; “but they
are written in Spanish; and I do not wish
to have this young man’s story published
unnecessarily; if he live, he may be able
to give an account of himself, and if he
die they must be translated.” “I am able
to do that,” replied I; “and it may be
prudent to know the ground you tread.”
Flamall understood the tone with which
89this observation was made, and he gave
me three or four letters from a pocket
book, which he said, the defunct had in
her trunk, and which constituted all the
papers, that could lead to an explanation
of a secret, which she had too long deferred
to communicate. “I shall only notice
to you,” continued Simons, “those
passages which struck me the most. Two
or three of the letters contained little more
than most tender expressions of maternal
affection; and the most pathetic description
of the writer’s hopes and fears, as
these related to you. One of a later date
informed Mrs. Duncan that Jachimo de
Castros had been summoned by the Duke
to ——, his agency being more important
there, than in England; that his services
were supplied by the orders he had
left with a tried friend, Joseph Jago, a
merchant in the Minories, to whom she
was to apply in every exigency, and who
would forward her letters. Another, of a
90later and recent date, was still more important,
but it was like the oracles of old
to me. Joy dictated the broken sentences.
Much was said of a picture which heaven
in its mercy had placed in Mrs. Duncan’s
hands. Joseph Jago would supply her
with a thousand pounds.” “Her Henrico”
was to be cautiously introduced to a
knowledge of a mother, whose miseries
were forgotten, in the hopes of clasping
her son, her long lost blessing, to her bosom.
“Spare no expence for the masters
he may yet need,” adds the writer, “it
must be yet some months before all is ready
for his appearance here; when, with
an exultation, the thoughts of which transports
me to extasy, his mother will be
proclaimed innocent, and he, my Margaret,
his father’s heir.” No signature
was added to these letters; but it was now
my turn to be cautious. I gave Mr. Flamall,
not the most exact translation of their
contents; and he observed, that they
91would do you more harm than good; for
it was clear you were a bastard; and had
lost your best friend, who had happily left
you enough for bread, assisted by your
industry. I was soon the friend of Keith;
from him I only got hints, that quickened
my curiosity. His wife was more pliant.
She informed me, that Mrs. Duncan had
written a long letter to Joseph Jago four
days before she died; and had, in her
hearing, desired that Mr. Flamall should
send it to his house. Her husband was
entrusted with it, and the gentleman was
told, that his partner had received it, and
had promised to forward it without delay.
Now, added she, I know this was a lie,
for it was in Mr. Flamall’s pocket at the
time, and this is nothing to what I could
say if I chose. “I was, as yet,” continued
Simons, “only on the threshold;”
and I forbore to press my questions.
Flamall was close; and yet I found he was
in cash. Keith had also money; and it
92was my business to diminish his stock.
This was soon effected; and one night he
said, that he had been a cursed fool; for
he might have made a man of himself had
he insisted on his due. I urged him, however,
by reminding him, that he ought
to have known Flamall and the jade his
sister. Yes, replied he, but they are always
too cunning for me; though I know
what was in the pocket case; and so does
my wife; one, of ten, only of the notes,
came to my share for all my trouble. I
could not get more from him; but I knew
then my next step was to the Minories.
Your mother’s Joseph Jago was a rich
Jew merchant, and I found his house
without difficulty. I was received into an
office of business, where several clerks
were at the desk, and one who appeared
to take the lead, civilly asked me my business.
My enquiries led to his answers.
“Mr. Jago’s absence was undetermined;
but any letters or commissions I might
93have, would be punctually sent him to
Cadiz with his own letters.” “Could I
be favoured with his address?” “Certainly,
but he had reason to believe his
friend was then at Madrid; however, any
letters directed for him to the house of
Jachimo de Castros would reach him.”
He courteously desired one of the young
men to write the address, and presenting
it to me, I withdrew.
So far all went well for my purpose;
and I was doing you no mischief; but I
will at once tell you, that I had motives
for my conduct, in which you had not
the least concern. Flamall had not only
kept this whole transaction from me; but
had refused to assist me in a difficulty of
my own; and it behoved me to have him
in my power. Had he known your
chances in life, he would not have sworn
to be your ruin, when he discovered, that
you made love to his sister, nor would he
have effected it, but for his wife. Your
94marriage was no secret to them; and I
saw there was a plot brewing to ruin your
poor wife, as well as yourself; for that
“she devil” hated her, because she was
virtuous. I was consulted by Flamall on
this occasion, whose rage was checked by
my arguments. Let it be noted by you
here also, that he saw as well as I, that
you were not a fool, nor would be his tool.
At this juncture I was one day with him
in his office, when casually opening a
drawer in his private desk for a mislaid paper,
I saw a Morocco picture case appear.
I took my time, and on examining it, found
it not only the representation of the most
beautiful woman I ever beheld, but also
enriched with costly diamonds. I was at
no loss from what quarter it came; nor
who had a right to it. My plan was now
completed; for I had the means in my
hands of saving my own head from the
pillory at least, and by serving you, should
gain friends who would better recompense
95my services than Flamall had done. “It is
d—d hard when rogues are not honest to
one another,” added he, “for they have
no one in that case on whom to depend:
but let that pass. You had swallowed the
bait I had sent you, the anonymous letter
answered, and you requested permission to
go to Harwich. All that followed you
know; but it is for me to inform you, that
the honourable gentleman who saluted you
on the road to Rumford, was Mr. Peachley,
the uncle of Mr. Flamall’s wife, who
was at that time in his house, which you
passed, and moreover, I was in this secret,
and what is more, received my fee in gold:
Little did they suspect, that, villain as I
was, I could not, nor would not, have been
in this infernal business, had I not been
certain of saving you as well as myself.
But you were no sooner departed, and the
coast clear, than I took the picture, and
disposing of the frame for our joint convenience,
I secured the angel face, which
I will now give you.”
96You may judge, my Harriet, of the
sensations which assailed me, when he produced
from its concealment, this evidence
of my birth, and irreparable ruin. It was
indeed the countenance of an angel which
met my eyes! She was in a Spanish habit,
the painting exquisitely finished and
enamelled. My expressions of grief and
despair touched Simons. “I am cursed,”
said he, grasping my hand, “you recant,
you cannot forgive me! but believe me,
or not, I wished to serve you. I was fully
convinced that I should succeed in tracing
these men, whom I have mentioned; and
by this means your father and mother.
They are noble and rich, the picture
frame was finished by a ducal coronet; it
grieved me to break it; but it was unavoidable.
I could have proved your identity,
and given such evidences of Mrs.
Duncan’s death, and the circumstances
which had thrown you into the hands of
villains as would have been unanswerable.
97But I am taken in my own toils,” added
he, with vehement and dreadful imprecations;
“and not allowed to be honest when
I wished to be so.” I again soothed him,
and by dwelling on my hopes of procuring
my liberty, I solemnly engaged to take
care of him to the utmost of my power.
“I believe you on your word,” replied he
with more composure. “You have convinced
me that virtue is not a convention
of interest, nor religion a lie. There was
a time, when my conduct disgraced
neither; but I was young, and had passions
to gratify which your creed did not suit.
I was gulled by a hypocrite, robbed by
rascals, and defrauded of six or eight
years labour by the neglect and ingratitude
of the man whom I served by my
talents, as much as by my hand. Your
compassion may save me, from worse
bonds than even these,” added he wringing
my hand. “I am old, but I have yet
98a heart; and humanity may make me faithful.”
Misery, my Harriet, does not harden
the heart. It produced in mine an interest
for this unhappy creature’s recovery and
comfort; and insensibly he became my
consolation, for, with a fertility of invention,
he suggested so many ways of reaching
Gibraltar, and from thence the object
of my wishes, that hope was renewed.
His communications from time to time
gratified my curiosity; although the subject
of it was diverted to a less interesting
concern than you, my beloved wife. Simons
spoke of you, in terms of kindness
and pity. “Then again,” said he, “I
was a rascal; for I knew that her worthy
father died in good circumstances, though
without having secured to her a provision;
yet I held my tongue; and was continued
in my office with an advanced stipend.
Flamall was certain, as he told me, that
her beauty would be her fortune, and his
99advantage; and with this scheme in his
head, she was treated with kindness under
his roof, to the great disappointment
of his wife, who had hoped to see herself
acknowledged as Mrs. Flamall.” “And
wherefore does he keep his marriage a
secret, even from his sister?” asked I.
“He has solid reasons,” replied he, “for
keeping the lady in the back ground; her
alliance is not the most honourable. Some
business in which she and her uncle were
useful to Mr. Flamall, obliged him to
purchase her uncle’s evidence, and to silence
hers as being his wife; but in return
Flamall can any day he pleases hang old
Peachley.” I was now, my Harriet, circumstantially
informed of a transaction
which I shall spare my pen the task of going
over with you. But it opened such a
scene of wickedness as to leave no doubts
on my mind, that your brother was fully
qualified to impose upon your innocence;
and my soul sickened in reflecting that
100you were in the power of a man, who, to
use Simons’s words, “wrote more hands
than any man in the profession; and with
an exactness so unrivalled, that he could
impose on the Devil himself.”
On the evening of our fourth day’s tedious
journey we reached the abode of our
new master. He was a man of about forty,
could speak a few words of English, and as
many of Spanish. He examined me with
attention. My youth and appearance
pleased him, but unfortunately the people
who had conducted us from the ship, had
received an impression which they gave to
him, and poor Simons was judged to be my
domestic. You know that his person is
not conciliating, and it was in vain that I
discovered the interest I took in his fate.
We were separated; my master taking me
with him the next morning to a house and
garden, several leagues from the town, in
which he was ruler. Here my philosophy
was checked. I was seized by an ardent
101fever, and for many days they thought me
dying. Nature resisted the attack, I was
treated humanely, and till I had strength
to crawl into the garden, and to seek the
shade, they assiduously carried me to the
fountain, which they perceived I liked.
But my grief was beyond their kind
offices; I had lost my mother’s picture,
and I understood that my patron had it.
He at length condescended to visit me;
for I believe he thought me a man above
the common sort. My tears and intreaties
produced nothing. He replied, that the
lady pleased him, “it was pretty,” and by
Mohammed he would keep the painting.
To soften this obduracy he sent me my
books and linen; and I was given to understand
that I was to teach him English
when I was well.
I next implored him to send my friend
to me. He evaded my request; and I
conceived from the signs made me, that he
was removed too far from me to render it
102easy to accomplish. The gentleness of
my bondage in the mean time kept hope
alive; for although I had the habit, and
the badge of slavery, I had no cause for
complaint. As my strength recruited, I
was employed in light labour in the garden,
and my mind was engaged by assiduously
learning the Moorish language. Again,
and again, I pleaded for the society of my
friend, but in vain. At length I was told
that he was dead; and the first use I made
of my more familiar knowledge of the language,
gave me the detailed circumstances
of his miserable end. His grief and impatience
on being separated from me was
shown in a manner which the people about
him neither understood, nor pitied. He
refused food, and they chastised his obstinacy.
He became more determined, and
he was left to himself and time for the
remedy. Nature at length conquered;
he asked for food by signs expressive of
his wants and submission; and they incautiously
103placed before him some boiled
rice and water, of which he ate and drank
so voraciously, that he died in great agonies,
a few hours after.
I found in this relation, my Harriet,
my last human tie dissolved; and I deplored
the loss of a man, whom in happier
circumstances of fortune, I should, it is
probable, have scorned for his vices, and
condemned as a being, lost to every virtuous
feeling; but isolated as I stood, Simons
was a prop, and I could not think of
him as a man who had outlived humanity.
But to return to my more immediate purpose.
My patron, pleased with my rapid
progress in his language, now became a
pupil for mine, and with much curiosity
he would listen to my reading and imperfect
translations of the English authors;
but he soon relaxed from his ardour, the
labour discouraged him, and he contented
himself with occasionally conversing with
me in his native tongue. My story produced
104no compassion, he had long desired
to have an Englishman in his house, and as
such I should by any application at Algiers
have brought him into trouble with the
Dey; he therefore chose to believe that I
was of Spanish origin. My mother’s
picture was an evidence of this, for he had
seen Spanish ladies, although none so
beautiful. Judge of the torments I endured,
when in saying this he would produce
the picture, and comment on its
superlative beauties. Thus passed the
first three years of my captivity, and my
incessant and defeated projects of escaping
to Algiers. At this period my patron removed
to a more distant province; and I
was further removed from every hope.
Two years more were passed in that languor
of mind, which the annihilation of
hope occasioned. My master discovered,
that he had gained no advantage from having
an English slave. I was too feeble
for labour, and too pensive for his amusement;
105and without a scruple of conscience,
or a mark of regret, he exchanged me for
a fine Arabian horse which pleased him;
and with the most unpitying indifference
refused to restore to me my mother’s picture,
saying, that I had been a costly
bargain.
With my new master, my toils were incessant;
but to what purpose should I detail
these years of misery to my Harriet?
Wherefore should I attempt to delineate
chaos, in which nothing of my former
train of thought appeared, but the remembrance
of the wife whom I had left in the
power of a demon? It would be a fruitless
attempt to give language to feelings,
which at times overpowered my reason.
But man, my Harriet, is no less incomprehensible,
than the power which has endued
him with the force to resist suffering.
In the days of ease and enjoyment,
the principles of his soul lie dormant; he
shrinks from the slightest blast, which annoys
106his enervated body and mind; given
up to adversity, to hardship, and labour,
all his powers exert their energy to preserve
an existence, of which he is weary.
Like the animals, it was my office to watch
and serve; I slept after my allotted toil;
and in the morning awoke to the privileges
of the man, and the prospects of the
Christian. How often did I bless my
Maker, for the hopes of the Gospel. How
often recall to my mind the lessons of my
tender and pious Mrs. Duncan! My mind
was soothed by the hope that you were
dead, my Harriet; and I exulted in the
thought of meeting with you in a world
of bliss. My master, at this period, sold
me to another; he was on the eve of a
long and fatiguing journey, and he had
the wisdom to perceive, that my strength
was unequal to the duties it would unavoidably
impose. I was, in consequence,
sold to another Arabian merchant; but
one much more wealthy than the master
107I had so laboriously served, during his
wandering desultory journeys, in his traffic
of buying female slaves. To my unspeakable
relief, I found that I was, with
others in my master’s suite, furnished with
a horse for our journey, of which each
rider had the care, and my good fortune
for once appeared. One of the most
valuable of these beautiful animals was
suddenly seized with an indisposition,
which must, in a few hours, have proved
fatal from the means used to preserve his
life. My master despaired of his recovery;
and I ventured to propose copious bleeding.
My advice was taken, and I was the
operator; the horse recovered, and my
favour was established. Our journey terminated
at my master’s home, and we became
stationary. His only son, a youth
of about sixteen, became attached to me,
and, for a time, I entertained the romantic
hope, of cultivating a mind, not deficient
in natural endowments; but the moment
108my pupil found that amusement led to application,
he lost his relish for Ibrahim’s
instructions. His father, a quiet indolent
man, had, in the first instance of the son’s
preference of me, formally given me to
him, not displeased by the modes of instruction
I had adopted; nor was he without
hope, that my example and precepts
might restrain the impetuosity of his son’s
temper. I still hope, that I contributed
to the amelioration of the soil, though I
was unable to sow the seed I wished to see
spring up. He exchanged me with perfect
indifference for a young female slave;
but with generosity he recommended me
to my new patron as something more than
a common man, adding, that I knew all
things. Whether this character, or my reserved,
although resigned behaviour, produced
the effect, is not a question of any
importance here; but it is certain, that
he treated me with kindness, and conceived
that I should repay him by the price he
109had affixed to my talents. He was by
birth an American, his traffic had conducted
him into many remote regions;
and I found in his conversation both improvement
and amazement. Time had
blunted the keen anguish of my wounded
bosom; bondage was familiar to my dejected
spirits; I was a non-entity to all,
but my Maker; and in contemplating his
arms of mercy, I could smile at my chains.
In the course of two years I had, with my
patron, journied by sea and land, until we
at length reached Grand Cairo; where,
induced by the profit accruing from my
sale, he parted with me to a Turk of some
estimation in the eyes of his countrymen,
for he was opulent and well protected. He
was advanced in years, had a noble countenance,
and spoke to me with a dignified
and placid courteousness, bidding me look
upon him with confidence. I obeyed,
and our eyes met. Good God! when I
perceived the tremulous signs of humanity,
110the sympathetic greeting of his still expressive
lineaments, my soul melted within
me; I was unable to resist the sweet invitation
of pity, and I burst into tears, instead
of paying him the exacted homage
of a slave to his master. He turned aside,
and I saw, yes, my Harriet! I saw
the tear roll down his venerable face.
Here, for a time, was my harbour of repose.
My benefactor and my friend
listened to my tale of woe, and whether it
arose from the suggestion of an enlightened
reason, or from the benevolence of his
heart, he neither blamed me for adhering
to my religion, nor recommended to me
his own. Once, and once only, he said
with a smile, “be discreet Ibrahim, and
be true to Allah in thy services; and whether
thou art a follower of Jesus or of Mohammed,
he will acknowledge thee.” I
bowed in silence, and I gave no offence by
being steadfast in my faith in the Gospel.
CHAP. VI. — Charles Duncan’s Narrative concluded.
111
I again return to my story. The recital
of my life produced an effect which the
good Abdallah had not foreseen. He frequently
indulged me in the recapitulation
of those circumstances of my disastrous
fortune, which no interval of time had
been able to erase from my mind. He
permitted me, my Harriet, to speak of my
wife, of my hopes as a parent; and my
wounds bled afresh. To pity and soothings,
he added more solid proofs of his regard.
“I am old,” observed he, “and
cannot live long; you are a comfort to
me; and the fate of those you deplore is
112probably long since decided. I will give
you freedom, and the means of returning
to your country, on condition you remain
here, and close my eyes.” I, with gratitude,
accepted of those terms; and, some
months before he died, he had, in presence
of the official magistrate, formally
registered my freedom. He had, moreover,
the precaution to give me a purse of
gold, which he ordered me to secrete,
saying, that his death might leave me pennyless,
as he could not trust to the generosity
of those who might succeed him. I
was faithful to my benefactor; and in heaven
we shall again be friends!
I met with no impediment after his decease
in the steps I took for my farther
enlargement, and at length with my little
treasure I reached Alexandria, where I
found a French vessel ready to sail for
Marseilles, in which I embarked as a passenger.
My early acquaintance with the
mathematics, and my desultory voyages
113with my patron, had rendered me no inexpert
seaman. Our navigation was tedious,
and the captain an ignorant babbler.
For amusement, I had recourse to my activity;
and, in the exercise on deck, I saw
that the vessel was badly manœuvred, and
in a crazy condition; keeping us constantly
at the pump, and under apprehensions
for our safety. Inured to labour,
and cheerfully giving my time to the common
relief of all, I became a favourite
with the sailors, which providentially saved
their lives and my own. Within a few
leagues of our port we met with rough
weather; and a swelling sea succeeded the
gale, which was only formidable to a ship
in the condition of ours. The leak gained
upon us rapidly, and the captain, in despair,
gave orders for the longboat to be
prepared, and for each man to think of
his preservation. The night was dark,
and the peril obvious, in an attempt to
reach land in the boat. My arguments
114prevailed; by incessant toil we kept the
vessel floating till day break, when we took
to the boat, and saw her sink before we
had gone half a furlong. We reached,
however, the port, and the shipwrecked
Duncan, once more saw himself poor and
friendless; but I was free. I looked at my
muscular arms and I smiled; for I was independent;
and quitting my companions,
who were relieved from their necessities by
the charity they solicited, I repaired to a
house, in order to replenish my strength
with bread of my own. My slender purse
sufficed, however, for my wants. I had
enough to buy me the dress of a seaman,
and fortunately finding an American ship
bound for London, I offered myself as a
shipwrecked Englishman, willing to work
my passage home. Something in my voice
and manner betrayed my feelings, when I
pronounced the word home. The captain
had the heart of a man, and I was told, to
take my birth “on board” that very evening,
115and that it should be a warm one;
for he pitied me. During the voyage my
quiet melancholy and some accidental discourses
of “my learning,” to use the worthy
captain’s word, so augmented the interest
his benevolence had excited in my
behalf, that, on reaching our port, he asked
me what were my intentions respecting my
future employment. I replied that my first
care would be to seek out a friend, who, if
found, would determine my fate, and probably
place me beyond the reach of penury.
“But you may not find him,” replied
he, viewing with attention emotions
which I was unable to check. “Let me
advise you to keep where you are, till you
can do better. I like you, and will retain
you as ship steward; you are a good seaman
and an honest capable man; and may
be the maker of your own fortune.” I
rejected this offer, saying, that I knew not
whether my private concerns would permit
me to leave England so soon as he would.
116“Well,” replied he, “I will not press
you into my service; but I must pay for
what you have done. I was on the look-out
for a hand to supply one who had left
me when we met. You have more than
done that fellow’s duty, and you are justly
entitled to your wages.” He placed ten
guineas in my hand, and added, that whilst
the ship was at her moorings, he thought
I might as well make her my “head quarters,”
as she would give me a bed and
board until a better hammock was found;
“and in order to make this offer sit easy on
your mind,” continued he, taking my
trembling hand, “You may keep a clear
reckoning, by being useful to me with
your pen, and your sobriety.” He instantly
left me, and at his return I thanked
him, and entered on my office of clerkship.
My approach to England had opened
those wounds which time and religion had
in part closed; but I mean not to place
117before you the condition of a mind torn
by the anguish of reflecting on you, and
corroded by the feelings of resentment,
and the purposes of vengeance, which alternately
governed my soul. At the sight
of London my spirits forsook me, my
heart ceased to beat, and I was conveyed
to my bed in a state of insensibility.
Would to God! I had found in this respite
from misery, my final dismissal
from sense and sorrow! But returning
recollection only restored me to the
contemplation of my wretched state. Forlorn
and friendless; cut off from the sweet
ties of affinity; blasted in fame; stamped
with ignominy, and marked for justice!
Deprived of the only comfort, the only
hope of my life! my wife, my Harriet!
who had been either destroyed in the
wreck of my fortune, or lived to despise
and to curse me as her undoer—Oh! let
me pause!
I now wore life away: one purpose absorbed
118my every sense of fatigue, every
fear for my safety! No traces of the Keiths
remained untrod; these ended in disappointments.
Another family had established
themselves in the square; and even
that had changed, in many respects, its
former aspect; for I scarcely saw on the
doors a name that I could recall to my
memory. Yet to this spot was I irresistibly
drawn, and for hours together have I
paced it. One day, and towards its close,
I perceived that I excited the curiosity of
the people who passed me; and that one
person in particular was observing me
from the window of that abode, in which
I had tasted of the cup of bliss, in order, as
it should seem, to know more acutely that
of wretchedness. I instinctively turned
down a passage leading into Ormond
Street. In passing a small shop, the window
of which displayed, with the food of
the poor, the humble luxuries of penny
pies and tarts, I stopped with others, in
119order to appease the wrath of the woman,
whose property had been invaded by a child
of about ten years old, whom she had detected
in stealing a tart. Her fury was
subdued by some one who paid for the delinquent’s
trespass; and the collected
persons continued their way with the
weeping and terrified girl. From the train
of thought which this little incident had
produced in my mind, I was recalled to
the consideration of the Harridan’s face,
who wondering probably at mine, and my
remaining before her door, asked me what
I wished for. I instantly recognized the
girl, when in former times I had daily
passed at her station near the passage I was
then in, where sitting by a wheelbarrow,
she sold her similar commodities, and
exhibited a face, which time could not
change; for a claret coloured mark so
completely covered one side of it, as to
form a half mask; and with this defect she
was moreover exceedingly deformed;.
120Struck by the conviction of her being a
person who must have some knowledge of
Mr. Flamall’s family, I entered the shop,
and placing myself on an old chest which
half filled it, I asked for some cold meat,
she applied herself to cutting and weighing
it. “Do not spare it,” said I, throwing
down half a crown, “I am hungry
and faint, having walked from Wapping;
and my return thither to-night must be
provided for. Could you procure me a
pint of porter?” “In a moment,” answered
she with alacrity, calling to a boy opposite,
who as instantly supplied the demand.
My questions followed; and as
the prelude to them, I told her I thought
I had seen her many years back, when I
was often a visitor in a family, who then
resided in Red Lion Square; but that I
fancied they were removed, not seeing the
name of Flamall in the Square. “Very
likely,” answered she, “mine is a face not
easily forgotten; but I thank God, thirtyfive
121years standing at my barrow, have
proved it an honest one; and you see
me now with a house over my head,
which will, I hope, better shelter me, than
many in the Square have done those who
passed me in all their glory and pride.”
“Was Mr. Flamall one of those who lived
too fast for his holding the station he was
in when I knew him?” asked I, “Oh
dear no,” replied she, “there was no fear
of that, he knew too well how to get
money to be in danger of being poor.
He sold his house when he married his
sister to a rich old man, and took rooms in
Lincoln’s Inn, he was too high to be called
an attorney, and it has been forsooth
counsellor Flamall from that time.” “I
must find him,” observed I, “for I have
some business with him as an attorney. A
relation of mine left him to manage her
affairs when she died, and I shall expect
my little legacy” “I wish you may find
it,” answered she, “but they say he is a
122sharp one, and loves money.” It was a
shame to marry, as he did, that beautiful
young creature his sister, to an old hunks
of seventy. “But I suppose the young
lady was consulted,” observed I. “I suppose
so too,” answered she, “for, God be
praised, they cannot in this country force a
poor girl to the altar; but, as I have been
told, Miss Flamall was broken-hearted for
the loss of a sweetheart, and for a long
time thought to be dying, and she did
not care what became of her honour; she
has been lucky on the whole, for the old
man soon left her a widow, and she married
a very proper looking gentleman;
and is now called my lady. But it is years
since I have seen her; and she may or
may not be living; for she went into the
North with her first husband, and I have
never seen her since; nor should I have
known thus much, but from an acquaintance,
who lived sometime with her as cook,
when she kept her brother’s house.”
123“What was the girl’s name?” asked I.
“I remember one who lived in the family
at the time my aunt died, when I was
frequently at the house on the business in
question.” “Mary Nutt,” replied she,
without embarrassment; “but she married,
and died in child-bed, poor soul!”
My enquiries terminated here, my agonies
were not to be concealed, and hastily rising,
observing that I should be late, I withdrew;
the woman loudly calling to me to
take my change. It was already dark;
and the intelligence I had received had
harrowed up every image of despair in my
benighted soul. Shall I retrace the horrors
of that night, when wandering from street
to street, my footsteps conducted me to
the river side? I stopped: I summed up
the blessings I had lost. I became desperate,
Harriet! The moment of perdition
was suspended by a watchman’s passing
me, who roughly asked me what I was
about. I replied, that I wanted a boat.
124“You will do well to wait till day break,”
answered he, surveying me with attention.
“Come, my poor fellow, let me show you
a house where you will be safe.” Subdued
by the gracious interposition which had
saved me, I burst into tears, and thanking
the man, I said, I would walk to my ship,
naming it and Captain Nelson. “You
are a cup too low,” observed he, “come,
I will share a pot with you; you are an
honest man by your looks; but you must
not remain here.” I complied, and he
led the way to a public house which
was open. I shared with him the porter
he called for; and he returned to his duty,
exacting from me a promise, that I would
wait for day light. It came, Harriet, and
I determined to live, and to take ample
vengeance on my destroyer’s head. The
state of my mind was such, as to admit
of no impediments in my projects of revenge.
I informed Captain Nelson that I
was going into the country, in the hope
125of meeting with a person whom it was necessary
for me to see. Again he pressed
me to continue with him; but finding
me determined, he contented himself with
again supplying my purse with five guineas,
and recommending me in the strongest
terms, to the owner of the wharf he used,
and who happened to be present. This
man engaged to employ me, in case my
necessities should oblige me to labour for
my bread; and giving me his address, he
bade me come to him should my journey
not turn out to my expectation. I had no
chains to impede my feet; but measuring
the distance by land, and my strength, I
preferred working down my passage to
Newcastle; having learned from the porter
at Lincoln’s Inn, that Mr. Flamall was
at his brother’s, Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s
seat near Durham.
Aware of the impression which sorrow
has given to my toil-worn countenance, I
have personated here a shipwrecked, and
126sick mariner; and pity gave me shelter.
Here ends my eventful tale, and here terminates
the decree of Heaven, which pronounced
that Charles Duncan should have
no friend, no comforter, but that Being
in whose approbation he should find peace
and repose. I have seen you, I have
heard your voice! I listened to your accents
of melting tenderness and sympathy
when you talked of your husband. “He
is a man,” said you, “of whom it may with
truth be said that he has been steeped in
affliction, yet, my Malcolm, like his
Divine Master, he bows resigned to his
cross; he murmurs not—but in his sufferings
teaches us patience.” And to whom
was this said? to your son, to Maclairn’s
child! No frenzy followed this scene of
anguish, but tears, my Harriet, which, like
the dew of heaven on the parched earth,
allayed the fever of my disturbed brain,
and solaced my burning bosom. I forgot
myself, I saw only in my Harriet, Maclairn’s
127wife and his son’s mother, dignified
and matured, by that virtue which had attracted
my adoration.
Persevere most excellent of thy sex!
fulfil the duties of thy station! forget that
I have invaded on your peace by this intrusion;
but my eternal safety depended
on your believing me innocent and faithful.
A little while, and I shall be in that grave,
in which for years you have believed me
to be. The storm of passion yields to
better thoughts. I will never see Flamall
if I can help it. Trust to my word, it has
never deceived you; and to the God of
truth I make my appeal; that in thought,
word, and deed, Charles Duncan was
worthy of your love, and will die in the
blessed hope of meeting your pure spirit
in a world of permanent joy and peace.
As soon as I am assured that this packet
is in your possession, I shall quit your
neighbourhood, and finally leave a country,
in which, as for Noah’s dove, there
128is no resting place for my foot. But should
thy gentle nature turn aside from the sorrows
at hand, to follow the hapless wanderer
anew in his painful course, remember,
that,
“Though in a bare and rugged way
“Through devious lonely paths I stray,
“Thy presence shall my pains beguile,
“The barren wilderness shall smile.”
Think not that I misapply these lines;
for my God will not refuse the worship of
a heart, because still alive to those affections
he implanted there as his most precious
gift. Farewell! once more I conjure
you by the tenderness and compassion
which this will awaken in your bosom, to
banish all regrets. Thou wast a widow,
Harriet, from the hour that Duncan’s
honour received its deadly wound. Thy
vows were absolved from the hour thou
wast taught to believe me capable of deserting
thee, even to secure my own life. I
have no doubts to clear away. Thou wast in
129the hands of a monster; and heaven has
been merciful, in extricating thee from the
snares of vice and infamy, which that
monster had prepared for thee.
Farewell, Charles Duncan.
P.S. Judge of my resolution! I have
heard that Flamall is daily expected at
the hall. I have heard him execrated as
the tyrant who rules there. I have heard
my Harriet pitied! Yet will I forbear.
Duncan shall not be his own avenger; for
there is a God “to whom vengeance belongeth,”
and he will not be mocked. I
fly from the temptation of infringing his
sacred rights. Your peace is the shield
which I oppose to my just, my everlasting
enmity with this demon. Again I promise,
that this hand shall not be raised
against your brother; for were it, my
injuries would give it strength, and justice
would guide it. Once more farewell!
Think not of the lost Charles. He is only
an atom.
130Lady Maclairn in continuation.
From the hour that Maclairn’s wife has
had this evidence of the triumph of villainy
over a man, graced and endowed
with every requisite to awe it, and to subject
its designs by the power of the virtue
inherent in his soul, she has been a stranger
to peace.
My conscience, lulled to repose by the
fond hope of being necessary to your comforts,
my dear Maclairn, as being the
sharer of your sorrows, and the companion
and friend in whose presence you sometimes
solaced your woes, and as one whom
you ever saw without trouble or disquietude,
had ceased to upbraid me for crimes,
to which I had been betrayed, by the authority
of my brother and my own timidity.
Had I, in the first hour, listened
to my self-reproaches on discovering that
I had been deceived, and that there still
existed a witness against me able, in a moment,
131to render me the object of your
scorn and detestation, I should not have
shrunk from an open avowal of the infamy
I had incurred; for I felt that the woman
who is dishonoured in her own eyes, and
condemned by her own conscience, can
meet with no encrease to her misery from
the contempt of the world. But as I was
Malcolm Maclairn’s mother and the ostensible
guardian of his father’s honour and
unsullied name, I have been dumb, and
have sustained my burden with patience
for their sakes.
But the time is not far remote, when
Heaven, in compassion to my contrition
and sorrows, will release me. You, my
beloved Maclairn, will acknowledge that I
have been faithful; and Malcolm will honour
his mother’s grave with a tear, and
he will say, “she has expiated her offence
by her sufferings, and has proclaimed that
she loved the truth, from which she was
so fatally led away by a Flamall. Let me,
132O heaven, depart in this hope! or be,
as though I had never lived to those for
whom I have lived. Oh spare to them the
pang of pronouncing Harriet unworthy of
the name of Maclairn!
I will not, my dear Lucy, hazard a single
reflexion on this touching narrative,
until the full tide of my compassion is
somewhat subsided. At present I am disposed
to consider that virtue too rigid,
which could condemn a culprit like Lady
Maclairn; and to say the truth, my heart
is too well disposed to admire and to acquit
her. You will not, therefore, expect
any decision in opinion until you hear from
me again. I shall be anxious to hear that
this packet reaches you in safety. Believe,
that though Lady Maclairn’s “dear
friend,” I am still your
Rachel Cowley.
P. S. Mrs. Allen sends her love. She is
convinced that Miss Flint loses ground.
CHAP. VII. — LETTER LVI. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LVII. Jeremiah Serge to Sir Murdoch Maclairn.
133
I am truly rejoiced, my Lucy, to know
that the manuscript is safe in your hands,
having had on my spirits a dread of its
miscarrying. You know not the comfort
you administered to poor Lady Maclairn
by your letter of Saturday’s post. She
suspected, by my lenity, that I was but a
poor casuist in matters of conscience; and
that I was more solicitous to banish her
sorrows, than to probe the cause from
which they spring; but since you agree
with me in asserting, that it is your decided
134opinion, there can be no criminality in a
concealment which secures to the innocent
peace and security; I find she listens
to me with more confidence; and I hope
in time to convince her, that to disclose a
secret which cannot produce, either directly
or indirectly, any beneficial effect
to those who must, on the contrary, suffer
from such a disclosure, would partake
more of folly than wisdom.
In this conclusion I am guided by the
best light my understanding offers me:
moreover, I cannot help placing in the
balance, the whole train of events which
have led astray from the paths of rectitude,
a mind constituted like Lady Maclairn’s;
and I am disposed to believe, that she will
be exculpated by an unerring Judge, for
those deviations to which she has been betrayed,
by the treachery and oppression of
others, more culpable than herself. Although
falsehood is never to be excused,
yet the caution of wisdom may surely suggest,
135without a crime, the reasonableness
and utility of suppressing that “truth
which ought not to be spoken at all times;”
the produce which regulates our zeal, and
imposes silence, is no violation of truth.
These are my arguments with poor Lady
Maclairn; I even go farther, Lucy; for I
insist, that she has for years been practising
the most heroic virtues by suffering in silence,
to preserve the peace and tranquillity
of her husband and son.
But, my dear friend, if such be the penalty
annexed to the concealment of error
and duplicity by an ingenuous mind, even
when that concealment is qualified by the
powerful motives of preserving the peace
and interest of all around us, what, I
ask, must be the horrors of the mind,
which covers, with a veil of darkness, the
fraud intended to ruin the innocent, to
betray the unsuspecting, and to defraud
the ignorant? What must be the state
and condition of those whose life is a lie?
136I cannot form a more appalling idea of a
state of future punishment, than in the
contemplation of the hypocrite’s terrors
even in this life. What must be the life
of a person, whom deceit and treachery
have made responsible for his safety to a
confederate, as depraved and dishonest as
himself; living under the dread of the
chance of every moment for open detection;
harassed with the conviction that
a more immediate interest, or more specious
promises, will convert the sharer of
his crimes into an informer and accuser,
whom he dares not confront? What can
equal the pang which must at times pierce
his bosom when he recollects, that he enjoys
the confidence and favour of his fellow
creatures, only because they do not
know him for a monster to be shunned!
But I must check this train of thought.
Lady Maclairn thanks you for your
soothing letter. Her mind is relieved by
the participation of its burden. She can
137now, to use her own words, live without
devouring her griefs, lest they should be
seen. Sir Murdoch smiles and tells her,
she is his rival with Rachel Cowley. We
shall yet be more comfortable I trust.
I enclose for your amusement and Mary’s
perusal, a letter we received on
Monday from Mr. Serge. Well may
this poor man apply to himself the words
of the son of Sirach!
“The father waketh for the daughter
when no man knoweth, and the care for
her taketh away sleep when she is young,
lest she pass away the flower of her age;
and being married, lest she should be
hated.” I only regret that Mr. Serge did
not study the same author, or at least one
as wise, for the means to prevent the
watchfulness and parental anxiety, so admirably
described in the above mentioned
words: for had he understood better how
to chuse a wife, he might have slept in
peace. A woman without understanding
138can hardly be called a virtuous woman,
and we well know the price of a virtuous
woman is far above rubies.
Miss Flint goes on deplorably; her sufferings
have subdued the baronet, who sees
with augmenting admiration the unremitting
attentions of his “excellent Harriet.”
Even Malcolm relents, and this
morning most cordially wished his mother
to urge her to send for advice to London,
thinking her case a chirurgical one.
I am growing somewhat displeased with
the winds and waves; but I remember
Canute, and submit to a power which I
cannot control. Mrs. Allen sends her
love; she is constantly engaged with her
invalid. Miss Flint is not easy without her.
I remain, faithfully your’s,
Rachel Cowley.
139
My Dear Friend, Putney, Oct. 27.
I am certain, if you knew the consolation
I have in your counsels and advice,
you would rejoice; for it is the command
of a master we both wish to serve and obey,
that the “strong help the weak.” God
knows I am weak, and my talents few;
you are a chosen servant, to whom many
are intrusted; but yet, Sir Murdoch, we
are of the “same household,” and the
children of the same father; and, blessed
be God! you do not, like some men, scorn
the relationship, because one is appointed
to a lower station than another, by that
wisdom which will accept the lowest, who
performs what is required of him. I am
140again brought to the trial of my strength
by a new sorrow, from which, my good
friend, neither my money, nor my wisdom,
can altogether shelter me. Yet both
shall be tried, as the means of relief; for
both have their use, when in the discharge
of that duty, which I am bound to perform
as a Christian parent. My daughter, Caroline,
encourages me to open my heart
to you; she says, she will be answerable
for the event, for that Sir Murdoch Maclairn
is a man as well as a baronet, and that
he will feel as a father the troubles of a
father; and she is sure, that you will approve
of my conduct; I think also that
you will; for I have been governed by
her; and surely Heaven, in its mercy, has
preserved her life for my good; and has
arrested the hand of death, until she was
more than ripe for the blessed state prepared
for her. Such a child! and yet so
wise! so good! I cannot proceed——
I have taken up my pen again. It is
141only five o’clock, and not a soul stirring
in the house but myself. So I will try
and disburthen my mind a little!—I do
not now remember whether I told you,
that some few weeks since, Mrs. Tomkins,
after passing a day or two with my
dear child, during her mother’s absence
from home, took Lydia to town with her,
her dear sister thinking, as she told me,
that the poor girl was losing her spirits.
I, knowing that she thought of every one’s
comforts, consented to my good friend’s
wish of showing Lydia some kindness.
The very evening they left us, Caroline
turned her discourse on Nora, praising
the letters she had written to us, and, with
her perfect charity, hoping all things. “I
do not repent, my good child,” said
I, “of the kindness I have shown her:
I am not the poorer nor the worse man,
if I have purchased with seven thousand
pounds, the gratitude of one, on whom
she depends for the comfort of her life.
142Would to God, that I could purchase
health for you!” She smiled, and said,
“Then indeed would you be in danger of
a bankruptcy; for I believe my father
would give his last shilling for his children’s
benefit. But let this pass. My
health is not at present what troubles me.
Promise me, my dear father, that, should
Lydia stand in need of your support, you
will remember, “That, where much is
given, much may justly be required;”
but that where nothing has been sown, we
cannot reasonably except an harvest to
rise.” “Make your mind easy in regard to
her,” replied I, “thinking she had in her
thoughts the little favour Lydia stands in
with her mother, I pity and love her.” “I
understand what you mean; and I promise
you, I will be her father and her mother
too, when occasion serves. She shall not
be brow-beaten and neglected as she has
been of late.” “Alas! my dear father,”
answered Caroline, “you must promise
143more, or I cannot die in peace. You must
promise to forgive another offending child:
you must promise”—She threw her arms
around me, Sir Murdoch, and weeping,
added, “to shelter her from reproach and
shame.” I turned faint and giddy; and
my daughter gave me her salts. Oh! if
you could but have heard what she said,
you would not wonder at what I have
done. In a word, my child was satisfied;
and she lives to tell me again, that she was
going to a Heavenly Father, from one who
imitated him in lenity to his offending offspring.
There was, in her look, something
which poured joy and comfort into
my broken heart. I only wish I could go
to heaven with her.
“Well, I saw my weak unhappy girl; and
Mrs. Tomkins advised me to let her manage;
for she was certain the terror of seeing
her mother would be fatal to her and
the unborn infant. I could not reproach
her, Sir Murdoch, indeed, an afflicted144man is not an angry man: and after all,
had not I been deficient in my duty?
Has not my indolent temper, and love of
peace, been more considered than the
good of my family? I have been too passive,
Sir Murdoch, too indulgent.
“I found the young spark who had
taken Lydia’s fancy was William, who was
with us at Fairfield Hall, and whom we
all liked, as a very sober well behaved
young man. His sister, my wife’s favourite
maid, introduced him to us some
time before we went to Bath. She said
he was like many foolish young men, tired
of being remote from temptation; and
that he had gained, with much difficulty,
her father’s consent to seek a place in
London, as a valet, or a butler, being well
qualified for both; she was quite unhappy
that he should be left to his own guidance
till he was fixed in a sober family; seeing
he was a very likely young man, and quite
a stranger. So my wife, who never is behind
145hand in good nature, said he might
come to Putney, and we were well pleased
with him, and engaged him to attend us
to Bath. Poor Lydia has been honest
with Mrs. Tomkins. The young fellow
was not so much in fault as herself: she
confessed that she sought him. However,
this was not the question with me; we
might perhaps have hushed up this business;
such things are done, as they say,
every day: but what follows? a crime,
in my opinion, ten times worse than Lydia’s;
being, as it were, committed in cool
blood; for what can be more dishonest
than passing off a deluded girl for a chaste
one? and depriving a poor innocent babe
of a father, and a name. I could not do
such an act of injustice; being convinced
that it would be doing what I should
not think just in another to do by me.
I consulted our friend counsellor Steadman,
however, on this vexatious business;
for notwithstanding I have little to be
146proud of as one may say, yet it went some
how to my heart, that a child of mine
should be pointed at by scorn and derision.
He is a worthy and a wise man, and agrees
with Mr. Tomkins, that the best thing I
can do, is to let these young simpletons
be married; the girl being half distracted
with the fear of losing sight of William;
and he being willing to take her, as he
told the friend we employed, Mrs. Tomkins’s
mother, that he would work for her
to his life’s end, and show his good master
that it was not his money he wished for.
I find his parents are honest people, though
low in the world; they had a farm within
six miles of York, but by losses amongst
their cattle things went backward, and
being in arrears for rent when their lease
expired, they lost the farm. William
was then about eighteen, had received
good learning, and was a sober, steady
lad; but a little pride made him discontented;
and he did not like to work as a
147gardener, in a piece of ground, which his
father cultivated in that way, near York,
and which, as he says, in excuse for his
leaving his parents, could only produce a
maintenance for them, and that he was
only a burden on the ground. So all was
fixed for the marriage, and we thought
no time was to be lost.
I am not quite pleased with my wife,
Sir Murdoch, although I know she is as
harmless as an infant; yet it grieves me
to see that she will always be an infant.
She was absent a whole month from Putney;
and whilst Caroline was thus employed,
and thus disturbed, she was taking
her pleasure with people she knew nothing
of, and whom all honest and sober minded
persons would shun. During eight
days she waited forsooth, for the captain,
who could not think it proper for
Mrs. Serge to travel without an escort, as
he calls a puppy. I remembered the time,
when much younger, she could travel by
148land and by water without such a conundrum
in her head. However they arrived
here, and the captain, to my great satisfaction,
refused to lodge with us, pleading
business in town; and intending to be absent
only three days from his Nora and his
friends.
I shall say nothing of my poor wife’s
hysterics, when I told her how matters
stood with Lydia. She was terribly bad
indeed! But, thank God, these fits are
not dangerous, as the doctors say; and experience
seems to justify them in their
opinion; for, I know one of my wife’s
old friends, who has been subject to them
twenty years. No sooner had my poor
Lydia got the better of hers on this trying
occasion, than she lamented her hard case,
saying, with many tears and much anger,
that she should never be able to shew her
face again amongst fashionable people;
and that no one but myself would ever
have thought of sinking their family by
149such a dunghill connexion. I lost my temper,
Sir Murdoch, for it frets a man to be
always doing for the best, and who is said
never to do right. And I very roundly
told her, that all the plagues of my life
were owing to fashionable people, as she
called gamblers and pickpockets; and if,
added I, that were all the mischief, I
should be tempted to thank William Willet
for his good services. You have now,
continued I, been a month under a roof
which the honest would shun; whilst under
your own, Mrs. Serge, the prop and
stay of my life, is sinking to the grave. You
might have learned a lesson of more value
than what your fashionable people at Reveland
Park have been teaching you. She
looked confounded, and wept in silence.
No man loves peace more than I do; my
heart relented; and I only added, that
she knew this was my temper; that, whatever
I thought, or rather felt to be right,
that I would do; and that the following
150morning Lydia would be Mrs. Willet. I
kept my word, Sir Murdoch, and last
Thursday by means of a licence, I saw
the young couple united. I do not know
how it was, but they quite softened me
by their tears and thanks. Mrs. Tomkins
was so good as to accompany them to her
mother’s; they set out as soon as the ceremony
was over, and I returned to Putney
to dinner, contented and relieved in
my mind. On entering the parlour I
found my fashionable son-in-law there; he
was reading the newspaper, and I asked
him, by way of saying something, “what
news?” “None,” replied he, “of importance;
but I understand, Sir, we may
expect a curious article to-morrow.” He
smiled, and, as I thought, insolently; adding,
“Miss Lydia Serge, second daughter
to Jeremiah Serge, Esq. married to William
Willet, late butler and gardener at Putney
in her father’s house, will make a
curious paragraph!” “Very likely,” answered
151I gravely; “and the article may
farther say, that the marriage ceremony
was performed in St. Martin’s Church, by
the minister of the parish, and in the presence
of the bride’s father. I shall contentedly
leave to the public their opinions;
some may be found who will perceive nothing
wonderful in a marriage between
Serge the taylor’s daughter, and Willet the
farmer’s son.” “You are to judge for
yourself, Sir,” replied he, “but I conceive
few will think Miss Lydia’s character redeemed
by this twofold disgrace to herself
and family. Upon my honour I pity Mrs.
Serge; and I dread the effects of this intelligence
on Mrs. Fairly.” “Look ye,
captain!” answered I, “neither your
mode, nor William Willet’s, of getting
a footing in my family has been such as
will make either of you my counsellors or
guides. I shall act as I please, do as I
please; but as I am a just man, be it your
case so to conduct yourself, as to make it
152pleasant to me to be your friend. My
children, except one, who is too good for
this miserable world, have both chosen
for themselves. The same lenity has been
employed for the one, whom weakness has
betrayed to folly, as to the other, whom
vanity and presumption rendered ungrateful
and disobedient.” “I hope, Sir,” returned
he with a fierce air, “you do not
pretend to compare—” “We will do what
is better,” answered I, ringing the bell,
“we will drop the enquiry, and have our
dinner.” My gentleman was surprised,
I believe; by my manner he took the hint,
however, and followed me to the dining
parlour. Our meal was not a cheerful one,
and I went to my dear girl the moment the
cloth was withdrawn.
I see, Sir Murdoch, how things are
turning. My wife is cajoled and flattered
by this fellow to such a degree as would
surprise you; she fancies he has done her
a great favour by running away with her
153daughter! Poor soul! it will be well if he
does not run away with her simple understanding!
However, all these troubles
call upon me for diligence in the settling
my worldly concerns, as well as those, for
another and a better state. I have already
spoke to counsellor Steadman on this subject.
My property is very considerable,
and much caution is necessary in the disposal
of it, so as to render it a lasting benefit
to my family. Now, my good Sir
Murdoch, I think nothing would give me
more comfort in my last hour, I believe it
is not far distant, than to know that I had
left you, and my dear friend Mr. Malcolm
with Mr. Steadman, guardians and trustees
for the support of the ignorant and helpless,
and a wall of defence for the innocents
who may spring from my daughter’s imprudent
marriages. I am led to hope that
you will not refuse me this kindness. You
shall hear from the counsellor when all is
prepared. He has been my right hand
154lately; I am directed by him in all that
relates to William’s settlement; but Lydia
shall have the same allowance as Nora;
and we are on the look-out for something
for her husband.
God preserve you all in health,
prays your faithful friend,
Jeremiah Serge.
P. S. My wife begs to be remembered,
she is out of spirits, and fancies the air of
Putney unwholesome. My Caroline is a
miracle! It is astonishing to think how nature
is supported! I am far from being
well; you will not wonder at this.
CHAP. VIII. — LETTER LVIII. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LIX. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LX. From the same to the same.
155
It is with no small satisfaction, my dearest
Lucy, that I find my “enthusiasm of
mind and ardency of temper,” (to avail
myself of your gentle terms for a spirit too
often governed by the impulse of a heart,
which, in its promptitude is apt to take
the lead of judgment) have met with your
approbation and concurrence, in regard, at
least, to the conduct I mean to pursue
with Lady Maclairn: to say the truth,
Lucy, I could practise no other; for she
hourly rises in my estimation, and esteem156with me is the basis of affection. The
relief which she finds in communicating
her thoughts to me, has given to her very
language a frankness which appears to be
her natural character; and in her account
of the various occurrences of her life,
since she married Sir Murdoch, she omits
not even her conjectures, as these arose
from the circumstances in which she has
been placed. “I long since had proofs,”
said she this morning, when speaking of
the suffering Miss Flint, “that Lucretia
was not devoid of feeling. My brother,
for reasons of his own, had so contrived
it, that she firmly held an opinion which
he, it is probable, only affected to have.
Illegitimate birth he considered as an indelible
disgrace on the innocent; and Miss
Flint adopted this notion, firmly believing
that neither fortune, talents, nor even
virtue could screen an unfortunate being,
who stood in this predicament, from the
reproach and insults of the malicious.
157Her affection for her child was unbounded;
and I saw with comfort, that I had
at least gained her gratitude, by my apostacy
from truth. The conduct she maintained
with my brother, in the mean time,
puzzled me. It was obvious, he was no
longer the favoured lover; and one day,
observing Philip much disturbed from an
interview he had with her in the garden
at Kensington, I ventured to say to Lucretia,
that I was sorry to see Philip unhappy.”
“I understand you,” replied
she, “and I will be explicit with you. I
shall never be his wife; nor will I be to
him what I unfortunately have been. I am
a mother, Harriet, and I will prove myself
one, by remaining what I am, and what I
can contrive to be, the guardian of my
son. I have no passions to gratify, no desires
to control, since I beheld the face of
my child; to love and cherish him, and
to bless you for your goodness, shall fill
up the measure of my miserable days.”
158She burst into tears and left me abruptly.
Her sincerity wanted no evidence stronger
than her conduct, continued Lady Maclairn.
For some time all went well. I
was made happy through her mediation,
and amongst the delusive hopes, which
led me to Farefield Hall as Maclairn’s
wife, was the flattering one, that, by the
influence I had acquired over Lucretia, I
might in time reconcile her to Mrs. Howard.
Mr. Flamall frustrated these designs.
His affections, as a parent, were so artfully,
so effectually brought forward, and his
conduct was so specious, that Lucretia insensibly
gave him a confidence, which as
gradually subjected her to his will and
pleasure as myself; and she observed, that
nature had yet preserved one strong hold
in Flamall’s bosom; for that he loved his
child; and that would prove to her a
source of future comfort; for that no man
was more capable of the office of preceptor.
Even I assented to this opinion, Miss
159Cowley, as it related to his talents; and I
was still the dupe of that affection, which
nature had interwoven with my frame for
my brother. He became more serious and
reserved from the hour of Philip’s birth,
and in the regularity of his conduct, and
the instances I had of his growing parsimony,
I scrupled not to think that he was
a changed man in many respects, although
still unsubdued in his love of power. As
Philip became of an age to receive his lessons,
his visits at the hall might be called
a residence; but you know already how
little these visits were productive of comfort
to me, and, I may likewise add, of
comfort to Miss Flint; for my brother
was a rigid disciplinarian; and had not
the child’s temper been one of the most
docile and sweet, he would have been miserable;
for my brother, guided by his
acquaintance with vice, understood not
that the path to virtue is pleasant, and to
unperverted feet, and a pure heart, has
160allurements far superior to any that his
lectures and vigilance could furnish.
You may judge of the difficulties I had
to encounter in this period of my life;
and the condition to which I was reduced
by a brother’s reminding me, from time to
time, that it was best for me to be “prudent.”
There was little need of a conscience
like mine to draw the inference;
his tone and manner were sufficient, and
he repeatedly roused Lucretia to stand
forth as my champion, on a ground which
had made me a coward, and the slave of the
wretch who had led me into the crooked
path. “Her conduct was, at least, uniformly
generous on this point,” continued
Lady Maclairn; “she never, directly nor
indirectly, mentioned Duncan, nor did I,
till very lately, know to what extent her
knowledge went of this unhappy affair. I
breathed like one freed from death, when
I found that Mr. Flamall had determined
to leave England with Philip. From the
161time I had the unfortunate Mr. Duncan’s
narrative before me, my soul abhorred the
sight of my brother; and I so entirely secluded
myself in my husband’s apartment,
that we did not meet twice in a week, and
his reserve and coldness when we did, went
not beyond mine. Again, my dear Miss
Cowley, truth obliges me to give a good
report of Miss Flint. In proportion as my
spirits flagged she redoubled her attention
to my wants, and her purse was ever open
to me. I believe, that my brother’s reason
for going to Jamaica, originally sprung
from a serious quarrel with Lucretia. The
death of his wicked wife left him free to
marry, and he was very pressing on that
subject with Miss Flint. Lucretia had
her secrets as well as myself; but accident
led me within reach of hearing her say,
“Never; urge me no further; for by all
that is sacred, if you do, Percival shall
know all.” I retreated, fearing to be discovered;
and, from that time, his voyage
162was mentioned as a decided matter. After
my brother’s departure, Lucretia fatigued
me with her importunities, to draw me
from my husband’s room.” “I should have
a servant to watch him; and one I could
rely on, although it cost her an hundred
pounds per annum.” I was firm, and she
submitted. Left to herself, she thought
of her niece, and I was consulted on the
expediency of her inviting this poor girl
to live with her; I was distressed for a reply;
knowing the bitter resentment which
she had nourished even to the name of
Howard; and her hatred to those who had
sheltered this unfortunate and excellent
couple. I evaded the question as well as
I could, contenting myself with observing,
that I had always thought it an act of duty
on her part to take care of her niece. “I
am willing to do so;” answered she colouring;
“but I must first know what
she is good for; and whether the people
with whom she lives have not taught her to
163believe I am a monster.” I saw the rising
storm, and timidly shrunk from it, saying,
that I could not give her my advice, without
incurring the censure of being swayed
by a sordid consideration for my reputed
son. “But you know,” added I, “that
you can provide for both these young people;
and you must determine their respective
claims.” Poor Mary soon after
exchanged her abode of peace, for this,
and the event has confirmed my fears.
The gentle and timid Mary neither gained
spirits here, nor strove to amuse her aunt’s.
She had but one path, it was to submit in
silence to her aunt’s temper, and to anticipate
her commands by her diligence. She
soon perceived the fatal habit which Lucretia
indulged; and this produced terror
and disgust in her innocent mind, which, as
you will believe, did not tend to conciliate
her to her aunt’s hardships. I did all that
I could do, to soften the one and encourage
the other; but my interference was
164resented, and I was reproached, as being
allied to her enemies, and blinded by
Malcolm to favour the Heartleys.
I was tempted, Lucy, to hazard some
questions, with a direct reference to Sir
Murdoch’s suspicion of having been poisoned;
but a moment’s reflection checked
my curiosity; and I diverted her attention
from perceiving my embarrassment, by
asking her, whether she knew what was
become of the gentleman’s portrait, and
the papers, which so obviously appeared
to have belonged to Mr. Duncan’s story?
She unaffectedly answered, that, “Sir Murdoch
had, when in London to meet me,
consigned them into the hands of the Spanish
minister, then resident there; and in
the interview,” added she, “he learned
that this nobleman was not totally a stranger
to the fate of Duncan’s parents; they were
dead; and a distant branch of the family
was in possession of the title and immense
estate; but there was a sister of the Duke
165still living, who was abbess of a convent;
and to her he engaged to deliver these
melancholy memorials of her still adored
brother. Can you wonder, Miss Cowley,”
continued she with emotion, “that I wish
for death! think of my meditations, when
darkness and repose conceal me from all
eyes but those of a merciful Being, who
witnesses my agonies. Such has been the
ruin effected by a wretch I dare not curse!
He is the child of my parents; the ties of
blood still flow around my heart; and I
implore Heaven’s sparing mercy for him,
whilst my soul sickens at the thought of
the injuries his hands have wrought, and
which no time nor repentance can remedy.
Think of his dreadful account with
outraged humanity, violated truth, and
every law of justice! I endeavour to hope
that Charles has found his peaceful grave.
I dream of him; and this frame of mind
lays me open to superstition: my imagination
presents him, as exultingly hovering
166over me on angel’s wings, smiling
with ineffable complacency, and beckoning
me to follow him. I try to obey him,
and awake trembling. Such are the visions
of my sleeping hours! You need
not be told the meditations of my waking
ones. One single principle of action has
counteracted the fatal effects of these perturbations.
I love my husband, my dear
Miss Cowley, with an affection exclusively
his; and I wish to live, whilst that
life is useful to him. I am prepared for
the event of being hateful to his eyes.
God will have compassion on me!”
My tears composed her; and my arguments
were listened to. She promised
me to be all I wished; and I broke up
the conversation by proposing a walk in
the avenue. Her husband joined us there,
and I told him I had been chiding my mother.
He smiled tenderly, and placed himself
between us, observing, that he would
keep the peace. “You will not succeed,”
167replied I with assumed gaiety; “nor will
I accept of you for an ally; you are too
much like your wife; but I have blustered
her already into obedience to my will; and
she had promised to be good, and to walk
with me every day the sun shines, instead
of sitting in Miss Flint’s room to hear of
pains which she cannot alleviate. He
thanked her, and blessed your
Rachel Cowley.
I am glad you agree with me in thinking
it proper that our dear Mary should
know the doctor’s opinion of her aunt’s
precarious life. She has consented with
168great reluctance to see Doctor Tufton; he
confirms our fears, and has made no
change in her medicines. She told Douglass
that she hoped he was satisfied by her
compliance with his wishes, and added,
“Do not think I am to be deceived; I
have done with medicines and doctors.”
“I told her that in that case I should
think myself dismissed from her presence
as well as favour,” said the doctor. “She
answered that the visits of a friend would
still be useful and acceptable;” but added
she dejectedly, “your prescriptions may not
be more infallible for a sick mind, than a
diseased body.” “I took her burning hand,”
continued the good doctor, “and with
sincerity of heart I told her, that in both
my characters, as her physician, and as
her friend, I still hoped to be salutary to
her, on condition she did not desert herself.
You are too low now, added I,
pouring out an untasted cordial at my
hand; you ought to have taken this two
169hours since. She put the cup aside, and,
shaking her head, said, you know it will
do me no good; these are not the cordials
I need. I know there are others within
your reach, replied I with seriousness,
that would contribute to give efficacy to
this, and which you refuse from a despondency
of mind which you ought to check.
Wherefore is it, that with a brother nigh
you, and whose conversation would cheer
you, you refuse to see him? His heart is
melting with compassion at the intelligence
of your dejection and sufferings.” “Why
then does he not come and tell me so?
asked she with agitation. But I know what
keeps him at a distance! he cannot say,
Lucretia, I forgive you! he cannot say, be
comforted!”
“The offence which produced your intemperance,
and his too warm resentment,
has been fully expiated by the pain which
both have experienced from it,” observed
the doctor; “both were in fault, and
170both have regretted the fault. Percival
thinks only of a sick and afflicted sister. I
will pledge my life on the sincerity of his
affection for you; and I know his soul
seeks to meet you in peace and love.” She
was oppressed, and gasped for utterance.
“Oh! why does he delay?” said she, “I
long to see him before I die!” “You shall
see him to day,” replied I, “on condition
that you will be composed. I am confident
that you will find comfort and amusement
from his society. She named the
hour, and requested that I would come
with him, not knowing how the sight of
him might affect her. I thought it better
to avoid the suspense of procrastinating
the interview,” continued the doctor,
“and Mr. Flint has been with her. Poor
Percival was extremely shocked when he
saw the alteration that sickness had made
in her person. She gave him her hand,
and told him, with more composure than I
expected, that she took his visit kindly.
171He spoke with emotion, and said something
of his hopes, and the ensuing summer.
I shall not live to see it, answered
she, looking stedfastly on him; but it will
comfort you, Percival, to know that the
prospect of the grave no longer terrifies
me; I am not without hope. He interrupted
her. Cherish it, said he, eagerly,
and, kissing her cheek, cherish it, my dear
Lucretia! and may its salutary influence
restore your health as well as your peace!
Is this your wish? replied she, bursting
into tears. Do you, can you forgive me?
You had not seen me here, Lucretia,
answered the captain with solemnity, had
any resentment lurked in my bosom: as I
hope for pardon for my own errors and
mistakes, so certain is it, that affection
and compassion brought me hither. Forget,
as I have done, the past; live to be
my comfort; and may this hour cancel
from your mind every thought that retards
your recovery! He again kissed her, and
172she hung on his neck, groaning with her
agitations. Percival, overcome by this
scene, permitted me to lead him from the
chamber, and he was not able to see the
family; I parted with him in the avenue.
My patient, fatigued by these exertions, is
fallen into a dose. She is sinking gradually;
and will probably be lethargic.”
Mary will be anxious to hear the result
of this first interview; her aunt requested
that the captain would visit her daily.
I have only time to sign the name of
your
Rachel Cowley.
P. S. Has Alice informed you that Mr.
Snughead is dead? either his son-in-law’s
return, or his grief for his wife was too
much for him: he died at Bath of the
gout in his stomach.
173
Our good father has no doubt communicated
to Mary the news of her uncle
Oliver Flint’s death. Peace to his manes!
He has left behind him a good report,
and we are much pleased with the last
proof of his being an honest and friendly
man. His heir, Mr. Philip Flint, has
written a very handsome letter to the captain,
to inform him of his legacy of five
thousand pounds, and Mary’s of three,
adding, that, believing it was the intention
of the donor, that there should be no delay
in the payment of these bequests, he
had transmitted to him the first six months
interest of the sum, in order to answer the
present unavoidable retardment of the
principal sum whilst waiting for his precise
174orders. Mr. Flamall still remains obdurate;
a circumstance which Mr. Philip
Flint in his letter to his mother regrets, as
a draw-back on his comforts, and peculiarly
oppressive to his mind at a time when
he might have been useful as a consoler.
There were letters for Miss Flint from
Mr. Flamall and her brother; some precautions
were judged requisite in regard to
the delivery of these. Doctor Douglass
undertook the business, as well as to prepare
her for the sable dress of the captain.
He asked her how long her brother Oliver
had left England; she took this hint, and
replied with calmness, that he had been
dead to her more than thirty years; but,
added she sighing, when we are re-united,
this period will appear nothing! Encouraged
by her composure he proceeded to
mention his honourable acquittal of his
promise to Mr. Philip Flint, and the regrets
of his friends for his loss; and giving
her the letters destined for her was on the
175point of retiring, after recommending to
her to be careful of fatiguing her spirits.
“Remain a moment,” replied she, taking
the two letters. “You shall see that I mean
to preserve my tranquillity. This comes
from a hand that never administered to
me, aught but comfort.”—She placed
Mr. Flint’s letter under her pillow. “This
from a man who, miserable in himself, is
the common disturber of the peace of
others. I will not read his letter: put it
into the fire.” “I hesitated, in obeying
her,” continued the doctor; “she perceived
it, and tore it into fragments.”
Now burn them, and judge, said she, that
I can be firm. Mr. Flamall has nothing
to do with this hour! I will not be disturbed
by his resentments. She paused,
and saw the mutilated letter consumed.
“I shall not have the comfort my brother
Oliver had,” observed she, “but I do not
murmur. Percival is very kind to me,
tell him that I am calm and composed; but
176that I shall be busy to day, and cannot see
him; and send Lady Maclairn hither.”
It appears that her ladyship’s commission
was to send off an express to Durham
for an attorney whom Miss Flint named.
Mary will have a letter from the captain to-morrow.
I am going to pass the day at
the Abbey; Sir Murdoch droops a little,
he dreads the consequence of his wife’s
perpetual fatigue; she has a cough not
very pleasant to my ears.
Mrs. Allen is of great use to the invalid.
She regulates the sick room with her usual
address, and has convinced Miss Flint of
the utility of quitting her bed for the sopha
during some part of the day. She thinks
it refreshes her spirits; and some interval
of ease at present enables her to make the
exertion.
I remain Lucy’s affectionate,
Rachel Cowley.
CHAP. IX. — LETTER LXI. From the same to the same. — LETTER LXII. From Mr. Serge to Sir Murdoch Maclairn. — LETTER LXIII. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.
177
This letter will contain little beyond
the particulars of a scene which recently
passed in Miss Flint’s room. Our dear
Mary’s solicitude is unavoidable, and her
wish to know what passes here ought to be
indulged.
Mrs. Allen was requested to witness the
signing of Miss Flint’s will, she cheerfully
complied; Douglass and Mrs. Warner
joining with her.
When this business was terminated,
she requested the doctor to inform the
178captain that she wished to see him after
dinner; and, with a languid smile, she
added, tell him that Mrs. Allen shall give
him his coffee.
When alone with our friend she begged
of her to be the witness to the conversation
she meditated on for the evening.
“Do not refuse me,” continued she. “I
have a few instructions to leave with my
brother, and you will be useful; you will
hear nothing to grieve you, although it
may affect him, and flatter me; but I
wish to finish my business with this
world!”
The captain, in Mrs. Allen’s words, was
punctual to his time. His sister was on
the sopha, but looked flushed and fatigued.
“He was agitated,” continued Mrs.
Allen, “and I said, we are doing well to
day, Sir.” He took his seat by her, and
pressed her offered hand with his lips. She
immediately spoke of Mr. Oliver Flint’s
death, making some obvious reflexions on
179the event. Then suddenly looking at her
brother’s dress, she said, I hope, Percival,
you do not mourn that poor Oliver has
given to a brother who stood by him as a
son, an inheritance that ought in the eye
of justice to have been yours. The captain
coloured, and replied with eagerness,
that he was perfectly contented with the
proofs he had received of his brother’s
consideration. He has rendered me comfortable,
added he, for the remainder of
my life, and has placed Mary in a condition
fully adequate to her ambition. I am
grateful, and sincerely hope, that Philip
Flint will live to show the world he was
worthy of the man whom he has succeeded.
Miss Flint was softened to tears.
God grant, said she with emotion, that my
will may be thus satisfactory to you! I
have done for the best, Percival, I have
been governed by only one principle. Let
me die in the hope that you will accept it
as an evidence of my repentance for having
180so long overlooked your just claims!—She
spoke this with agony.
My dear Lucretia, said the captain
hastily, and startled at the disorder she
was in, let us drop a subject so useless. I
have no wants, no wishes ungratified, but
that of seeing you well. I cannot bear
your kindness, replied the poor weeping
Miss Flint; I have not deserved it! Say
not so to me, answered the brother with
tenderness. We have all, my dear
sister, to make this acknowledgment to
our Maker. We have all of us errors to
regret, and something for contrition, but
we have a merciful Judge, who knows that
we are weak and fallible: let me conjure
you to endeavour to recover your spirits.
Let us employ the allotted space allowed
us in acts of love and mutual aid. Your
friend, as well as physician, assures me,
that your malady is augmented by the depression
of your mind. Exert your faith;
animate your spirits by reflecting, that
181you are in the hands of a Being infinite in
mercy. Would you like to have Mary
with you? She wishes to see you, and
might be useful to you. I could not bear
to see her, answered Miss Flint with a
voice broken by sorrow; but it is not from
unkindness, that I reject her, it is not
hatred nor cruelty that govern me. I am
certain it is not, replied the captain; No:
my dear sister! their empire is over; and
a temper, to which worlds would be nothing
in the balance, has now a place in
your heart. Oh! live to enjoy the blessed
exchange! live for my comfort!
“I thought his sister must have fainted,”
continued Mrs. Allen, wiping the tears of
sympathy from her honest face; and I
hinted that she wanted her cordial. The
captain understood me, and I believe
would have gladly retired himself and left
her to my care; for he rose and observed,
he had staid too long, and that she needed
rest. Rest, repeated she, detaining him,
182oh, be not so deceived; I need no rest, I
can find none that cheers me like seeing
you. He again took his seat, and with
composure observed, that she had promised
him coffee: and that he would remain,
on condition she would try to be
quiet and listen to our chat. She smiled,
and I took my post.
Again he offered to leave her, when,
with composure, she said, my dear Percival
you must indulge me; this is the last
time I will mention business which may
distress you; but I shall not be easy until
I have finally settled my concerns with
this world. Whatever you find done in
this way, when I am dead, remember
what I have already said, I have done all
in love, and have been as just as I could
be to you. You will find my will in that
cabinet, continued she, directing his attention
to it. Lady Maclairn has my instructions
in respect to all that it contains
183except the will; she will inspect it in your
presence.
Here is a present for my niece. May it
prove to her, what of late it has been to
me, a blessing! The captain paced the
room in silence. This picture, my dear
and invaluable friend, continued she, addressing
me, you will see buried with me.
She gazed intently on the miniature of
Mr. Philip Flint, which she wears in her
bosom. Poor fellow! added she mournfully,
he will not soon forget Lucretia!
He will regret that he was not with me.—I
cannot stand this! said the agitated captain,
and were I not convinced, Lucretia,
that even in this depression of your mind,
there is a healing power more potent than
all human aids, you would break my
heart.—I will spare your feelings, answered
she, only let me say a few words more: I
wish to have your concurrence. I have
nominated Mr. Greenwood to succeed
Snughead in the Farefield living; but if
184you think he would like the presentation
better from you, speak, and it shall be so
managed. “I do not believe,” added
Mrs. Allen, “that the captain could have
uttered a word, had his friend’s being
made an archbishop depended on it; he
was quite overcome by his feelings.”
“At length he ventured to say, should
you like to see Mr. Greenwood? He
would be sorry to see me, replied she; he
is a good man, and will pity me; but I
wish not to see him. I have no want of
his assistance;” she raised her eyes to Heaven,
and paused. “You may imagine,”
continued Mrs. Allen, “that her exertions
had subdued her. The captain no
sooner left her, than she went to her bed;
and I have the comfort of quitting her in
a peaceful sleep.”
This recital, my Lucy, will affect poor
Mary; but it will do her no harm hereafter.
Her mind wants firmness for the
trials of life; and she must acquire strength
185by the usual means. I have occasion for
more patience and fortitude than I possess.
I tremble for the consequences which will
result to Mrs. Allen, should Miss Flint
continue long in her present condition.
What will you say to the cares and attention
that devote my dear friend to her
room the whole day? What will you say
to her swelled legs, got by watching her
through half the night? Will it be any
comfort to you, when she is on a sick bed,
to be told that her piety and prayers are
the cordials that quiet the perturbed spirit
of the miserable invalid? I have yet
much to do with my rebellious one; and I
honestly confess, that, sincerely as I rejoice
at Miss Flint’s present temper of mind, I
should murmur to give a saint to her funeral
obsequies. My serious remonstrances
have answered; Mrs. Allen is gone to
bed, and I will take care she shall not quit
it to-night, to traverse half clothed, the
passages to that of another.
186What with fogs within, and fogs without,
it has been necessary for me to make
a sun of my own. Sir Murdoch has undertaken
to teach me to paint in oil colours;
and I have begun to copy a landscape
“très riant,” for I cannot help
laughing at my imitation of a good copy.
In continuation.
I was summoned below stairs. The enclosed
will explain the cause. Sir Murdoch
and his son set out for Putney to-morrow
morning; and we are in a bustle;
and somewhat anxious about the roads and
cold weather. I must help Lady Maclairn
in this alarm.
Adieu, your’s,
R. Cowley.
187
Putney, Dec. 3.
My dear and honoured friend! It is all
over with Jeremiah Serge! The public
papers will tell you that he is desolate.
To-morrow I shall lose sight of her precious
remains! But what of that! Do I not
see her always before me? Do I not hear
her voice, and the blessed consolations she
gave me. My name was in the last sigh
that conveyed her to her God! Oh!
she was a child, Sir Murdoch, worthy of
a heavenly Father! She was too good to
be lent me long! and yet I never forgot
to be grateful for the loan: my daily
prayers were thanks to God, for the blessings
188she imparted! so affectionate, so
gentle, so wise, and yet so young! What
a bulwark of defence has my age and
weakness lost! I do not know why I write
to you; but I am so oppressed by my
thoughts, and my kind friends here fatigue
me. They cannot help it. They do for
the best; but what can be done for me!
Is it not hard to see the sapless trunk left
to the wintry blasts; and the blossoms of
the spring cut off? If my child had been
spared only a little while, she might have
closed my eyes, and I had been at rest.
But I must not murmur against God! My
Caroline warned me not to grieve as “one
without hope.” And I will hope, Sir
Murdoch, that my present feelings will
soon effect my deliverance. I shall soon
be re-united to my child. I am very ill,
and I think it is better to tell you what
also disturbs me in this hour of tribulation
before I send away this letter. I have not
been negligent in regard to my worldly
189concerns, as these relate to the security of
my wife and children; for I lost no time,
in executing that duty, after you had so
graciously consented to be my children’s
friend. But my heart is now set upon
seeing you and Malcolm once more before
I die. You are a good man, Sir
Murdoch, and, in the sight of God, that
is the only title that will survive you. I
think you will not refuse to come to me:
no comfort on earth would be so welcome;
but do not delay your journey, if you
mean to see me; for indeed I am sinking
fast. My poor wife is on a sick bed; she
might have foreseen the blow more than
she did, but we have all our faults! Poor
soul! She finds at this hour that life
needs more than a doublet of silk, to
guard the pilgrim in his rough journey!
I am sure Malcolm will second me in my
request. Tell him, that poor Caroline
spoke of him not an hour before she died,
190and called him her good brother Malcolm.
God preserve you, Sir Murdoch, from
knowing the sorrow which fills the
heart of
Jeremiah Serge.
Friday morning.
My letter[1] of Monday last contained
the intelligence of the good baronet’s
safety, and the comfortable hopes that are
entertained at Putney, that Mr. Serge
will not need executors to his will, for some
191time at least; for the sight of the travellers
has been a cordial to him. This morning
we had another letter; it was from
Malcolm; all the business which occasioned
the journey had been finished to
poor Mr. Serge’s contentment; but he
had exerted himself too much; and the
gout had overtaken him. Malcolm adds,
that the doctor regards this indisposition
as favourable to his friend’s general
health, and that he is chief nurse; Mrs.
Fairly attends her mother with assiduity,
though unwell herself; she is, he says,
the shadow of the Leonora we know, and
he thinks her in a consumption. Her
husband, from time to time, attends her;
but his reception is cold and ceremonious
in Mr. Serge’s room, and he is not less
restrained on his part with the guests. Sir
Murdoch is in perfect health, and the
counsellor shares, in his leisure hours,
and contributes to his amusement.
192Lady Maclairn summons me to perform
my part of the task we have before us;
she has finished her part of it, and I have
to fill the second sheet of paper to Putney.
You will soon find me with you
again; but my good father must have
this hour, and the satisfaction of knowing
that his wife is easy and reasonable, as is
your
Rachel Cowley.
CHAP. X. — LETTER LXIV. — LETTER LXV. From Mr. Paget to Capt. Percival Flint. — LETTER LXVI. — LETTER LXVII. From Mr. Flamall to Mr. Philip Flint.
193
Sunday morning.
Will my Lucy need from me the obvious
reflexions, which will result from
the perusal of this letter? “No:” nor
have I time to make them, though the
impressions on my mind are such as will
indelibly remain, as admonitions to warn
me against too much security in this
world’s air bubbles!
I had so well sustained my part with
my pen, in writing to Sir Murdoch, that
I had produced a cheerfulness on the
pensive brow of his wife; and she detained
me with her, until it was too late to finish
194my letter to you. I therefore continued
to read and chat with my friend till
near the dining hour. The appearance
of Doctor Douglass was nothing new;
but we were equally struck with his manner
and countenance; and her ladyship,
with alarm, asked him, whether Lucretia
was worse. “No,” replied he, with visible
distress, “there is no material
change; but she has asked for you.” Lady
Maclairn immediately quitted us to go
to her sister’s room. “She is dying,”
observed I, “you think so, I am certain;
why do you flatter Lady Maclairn with
hopes?” “Poor creature!” answered he,
“I wish she had only this shock to support,
there would then be little to justify
my fears for her; but I am a coward,
Miss Cowley, and you must assist me, and
yet I tremble even in soliciting your aid;
for these exertions can do you no good.”
“Never think of me,” said I eagerly.
“What are the dreadful tidings you
195bring?” “That a sinner is departed,”
answered he with solemnity; “that Lady
Maclairn has no longer a brother. Let
me conduct you to your apartment,” continued
he, seeing me pale and trembling,
“I must consult you; and we shall be
interrupted here.” I made no reply; but
yielded to his assistance.
A burst of tears relieved me. “Wherefore
is it,” observed poor Douglass, with
compassion, “that you seem destined,
by Providence, to be the support of this
unfortunate family; and, by the continual
exertions of your fortitude and humanity,
thus to diminish your own comforts and
weaken your health?” I admire you, and
I reverence your Mrs. Hardcastle; but
your strength of mind is uncommon!
“Try it,” replied I, “let me hear the
whole of this dreadful affair; it cannot be
worse than I apprehend.” “Nor is it
better,” answered he; “and we have to
guard against surprises. It must be discovered.
196The public papers will have the
intelligence, and Lady Maclairn must be
prepared; are you equal to the task?”
“I trust I am,” answered I, “otherwise
my strength of mind is no virtue.” He
grasped my hand, and said some words,
expressive of his approbation, then proceeded
to inform me, that Captain Flint
had found on his table the preceding evening,
on returning from his sister’s, the
packet which he now produced. “I was
sent for,” added the doctor, “and we
passed nearly the whole night in reading
the contents, and consulting the best
means of communicating them to Lady
Maclairn. The captain declared he was
unable to do it; and thought himself peculiarly
disqualified for the office, it being
no secret, that he despised the man,
and was not surprised at his end.” “I have
no heart on such occasions,” continued
Douglass, rising and pacing the room. “I
have a trick of looking beyond “this diurnal
197sphere,” and I hate to announce the
death of the wicked. There are the letters;
I will leave you for an hour and then
return; you may want me as a physician.”
To the hasty perusal of them, followed
my thanks to Providence for the absence
of Sir Murdoch; and without suffering
the energy of my mind to relax, I sent for
Lady Maclairn to my room. She instantly
perceived my emotion, and I at once acknowledged
that I had bad news to communicate
from Jamaica; and which Captain
Flint was unequal to the task of doing.
She gasped for breath. “Nothing
can equal,” continued I, “Mr. Philip
Flint’s solicitude for you, thank God! he
has stood the shock: his friends are without
alarm for him. Mr. Flamall’s death
must be supported, my dear Lady Maclairn;
let me see you composed.” “It
was sudden?” said she, fixing her eyes on
my face, “It was——I made no other
answer, than falling on her shoulder and
198weeping.” “It is enough,” said she,
trembling and sinking from my embrace.
I was terrified, for she did not faint as I
expected, but with her eyes fixed, and
with a deadly groan she articulated the
name of Duncan. I immediately perceived
the dreadful idea, which had taken
possession of her mind. “He is at
rest, my dear friend,” said I, “and now
blessed for his faithfulness to you.” I was
proceeding, but she heard me not. Horror
had transfixed her to her seat. She
was as cold as marble, and not a tear
fell. I rang the bell with violence. The
doctor entered at the same moment; he
instantly bled her, and she was put into
my bed. Douglass watched her, under
great uneasiness, until she appeared to me
to be dead. I really thought she was,
when her eyes closed and her stiffened
limbs relaxed. “Take courage,” said
he, “the worst is passed; she will recover.”
The event shewed his judgment;
199for in a few minutes she burst into violent
sobbings, and the death-like coldness of
her hand gave place to a friendly perspiration.
He gave her a cordial; and ordering
no one to disturb her by speaking,
I was left with her. By his orders, I neither
checked her tears, nor evaded her enquiries.
I believe, however, that she dosed
for some time, as not a sigh escaped her.
At length, putting aside the curtain, she
spoke, and I approached her. “Angel
of mercy and goodness,” said she, kissing
my hand, “tell me, has no one seen my
distress?” “The servants saw you in a
fainting state,” replied I. “But they never
saw me so ill I believe,” observed
she with anxiety, “Did nothing escape
me?” I satisfied her at once on this
point, and at her request briefly, and I
think wisely, informed her of the leading
events contained in the captain’s letters.
She wept, and I proceeded. “In this
trial of your faith and fortitude,” said I,
200“it is not possible you can overlook the
merciful Being, who has secured Duncan
from guilt, by removing him to an abode
of peace.” “I cannot express my thankfulness,”
replied she, “but I feel the
gratitude.—But my wretched lost brother!”
She shuddered anew— “He is
before an unerring Judge,” replied I, interrupting
her. “It neither becomes you
nor myself to limit infinite mercy. You are
now called upon, by that God of mercy,
to submit to his power and to trust in his
goodness and compassion. Let it be your
concern to perform, with courage, the part
assigned you. It has been a difficult one;
but not beyond your strength. Remember
that you are still a wife, and a mother;
and your duties will give you patience
and peace.”
Emulate the man in whose sorrows you
have shared; “he was faithful to the end.”
Deprive him not of the glory of having
loved your reputation and your honour
201more than his own. To Lady Maclairn
he sacrificed his fondest hopes, his vengeance
on his oppressor, his ease in life,
and even the name of her faithful Duncan
to his last moments. Weep for him!
continued I, with my eyes streaming;
neither religion nor virtue forbid this tribute
to his memory; but live to preserve
Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s peace. “I
would die rather than disturb it,” said she
with agony. “It is my misery, my past
punishment, that whilst my soul mourns
the fate of a man ruined by my affection,
another not less worthy, not less beloved
has been involved in all the perils of my
miserable condition and conduct. I cannot
live without Maclairn’s esteem and
tenderness; I cannot die without affecting
him. I must still wear the odious
cloak of deceit; I must still impose on
his noble unsuspecting nature. Oh fatal
consequences of my quitting the paths of
truth!” added she, with interrupted sighs;
202“wretched fruits of my weak credulity
and childish fears! Had I been firm, had
I shown myself to the world as the reprobated
widow of poor Duncan, I should
long ere this have smiled at its contempt,
or been at peace in my grave. But for
what am I not now answerable?” “Not for
your brother’s wickedness,” replied I
eagerly, “you have a fair account, my
dear friend, to set against the errors of
your youth; recollect the place you have
filled in society, the years of suffering
your tender cares have mitigated, the
duties of the mother you have performed,
the happiness you have administered;
and I will add, the pangs your courage has
sustained in order to effect the tranquillity
of others. Secresy is now a duty, and an
obligation enforced upon you, by every
motive of virtue and utility. Let me see
you, what you may be; unless, by recalling
the past, you destroy your health,
and my hopes. The storm is passed; and
203if you experience not the joy of an unclouded
sky, yet the evening of your days
may be serene and quiet.”
She promised me to be all I wished,
and to brace every nerve against her husband’s
return. I think she is more composed
to day; and at her request I have
been with Miss Flint. As I expected, she
began by lamenting her ladyship’s sudden
indisposition, and added, that Percival
also had a cold which prevented her seeing
him. I gave her hopes of her sister’s
speedy recovery, and endeavoured to keep
up the conversation; but she soon dosed,
which I find she again does half her time,
and I left her without being noticed.
Good night, I am going to bed, and to
sleep if I can. Mrs. Allen will be with
Lady Maclairn. I direct my letters to
Sedley. You will understand by the accompaniments
my reason for so doing.
Mary might wonder at not being trusted;
Mr. Sedley will give you this packet.
204Adieu. Let me know that the intelligence
is secure in your hands. My friend wishes
you to keep these with the other papers:
she has read them.
I am really quite worn out with one or
two night’s watching; but do not fancy
me sick, should I be lazy. We expect
Sir Murdoch the day after to-morrow; and
I may have too much business on my
hands to write to you before Saturday.
(Enclosed in the preceding.)
DEAR SIR, Kingston, Jamaica, &c.
The melancholy contents of this letter
will sufficiently account for its being written
by a stranger to you. The duty assigned
205to me will, however, at once show
me the friend of Mr. Flint, and the painful
witness of the distress, into which all
his family are plunged.
The sudden death of Mr. Flamall, his
uncle, is an event, which, under the common
circumstances of human life, would
require precaution, in the communication
of it at Farefield Hall. But my poor
friend has to dread every thing, lest the
catastrophe of his uncle’s end, should
reach his mother through the channel of
the public papers. He conjures you to
consult his brother Malcolm in those measures
which are necessary to prevent this
blow reaching the hall too suddenly for
his mother’s strength. Before I begin
the detail of those particulars, which you
will naturally wish to have before you, permit
me to have the satisfaction of assuring
you, that my patient, and I may add my
dearest friend, Philip Flint, is in a degree
recovered from the illness brought on by
206the first agitation of his spirits; his amiable
wife is well, and as yet a stranger to
the shocking tale. I will now begin my
melancholy task.
The arrival of a large vessel in this port,
from New York, and commanded by a
Captain Nelson, may be assigned as one
of those cases which have produced the
event before me. In consequence of Mr.
Flamall’s having a concern in the cargo,
he was induced to quit his retirement;
and to come to the Creek plantation, near
this place. To this circumstance I was a
stranger, however, having, as Mr. Flint’s
friend, dropped a man, generally condemned
for his inflexibility; and at present
forgotten by that society, which for
some time he had so carefully, and gloomily
avoided.
I happened to be at the general rendezvous,
a coffee-house here, when a merchant,
of the name of Gilpin, an intimate
friend of mine, entered, with Captain
207Nelson, the newly arrived stranger.
I was presented to him by my friend: and,
in a way, which the captain and myself
both appeared to understand. I found,
that Mr. Gilpin had long known this
gentleman; and in a few minutes
I thought I had long known him myself,
from the frankness of his manner.
We were settling our plan for dining together;
when one of the waiters told Mr.
Nelson, that “Mr. Flamall was on horseback
at the door, and wished to speak to
him for a minute.” The captain instantly
obeyed the summons, and, in a few minutes,
he returned to the room, and I
saw Flamall pass the window. I remarked
to some one near me, that he looked ill
and dejected. The captain, was now disturbed
by a more serious business. Some
one in the passage called loudly for assistance;
and the captain was told, that “his
steward was in the agonies of death in the
corridor.” We flew to the spot; and, as
a medical man, it became my duty to succour
208the sick one. He had been suddenly
surprised, by the bursting of a large
blood vessel, and the case was critical and
justly alarming. I was, however, struck
by the uncommon interest which the
captain appeared to take in the poor man’s
preservation. Every accommodation the
house could afford was speedily procured;
and I saw my patient in a spacious bedroom,
with a negro woman for his attendant,
whom I knew was a good nurse.
Some abatement of the hæmorrhage, having
succeeded to bleeding in the arm, and
other remedies, I left him to his repose;
and joined my friends at Mr. Gilpin’s,
whose house was not remote from my patient.
Captain Nelson listened to my account
of him with the utmost anxiety.
“I would give half I am worth,” said he,
grasping my hand, “to save this man.”
This complaint came on in a moment,
they tell me: he was apparently well when
I passed him; and that was not five minutes
209before you saw him; those near him
say it was a fit; for they heard him groan,
and he rose from his seat, as if to seek
air, when he fell back and the blood
gushed from his mouth. I saw, in this
account, his hopes of the man’s recovery;
which I could not encourage, and wished
not to depress.
After dinner he attended me to visit
him. “I have known this man many
years,” said he. “I have no doubt of his
having been unfortunate; his education
and manners speak the gentleman: his
conduct and industry the honest man.
His reserve and dejection have imposed
on me a respect for his misfortunes; and
to this hour I only know, that his name
is Charles, and that he is a very extraordinary
man; for his fidelity to me, has not
lessened his influence with my people;
who all love him as their best friend. To-morrow
morning, I shall bring his boy on
shore to be with him.” “Then he has a
210son?” observed I. “One of his adoption,”
answered he; “and his motives for so
doing, will give you his character. I had
lost sight of him for some years, having
left him in London. In his passage from
thence to New York, where, as it appears,
he was as poor as when I first saw him, he
was a common seaman: one of the crew,
a native of New York fell sick and died on
the passage, recommending to Charles
his aged mother, and his child, this boy.
He promised to take care of them, and he
kept his word; for taking up his abode in
the old woman’s miserable hovel, he supported
the family by his labour. In this
situation, I again met him. The death of
the woman, and my offer to take the boy
with him, induced him to accept the post
of ship steward on board my ship; where
he has been several years. You will judge
of him as a schoolmaster, when you see
George.” “Poor lad!” continued the
211captain, “he will break his heart; but I
will be his friend.”
I returned to my patient, but did not
allow him to speak; he was told that his
George would be with him in the morning,
and his hand only was offered to the
captain.
On entering the room the following
day, I found George at his post. The
patient was raised by his pillows; and one
of the finest youths, my eyes ever beheld,
filled the space they had left. He was
bending over the sick man, in an attitude
convenient for his head to rest on the
lad’s shoulder, who was, as I judged, between
fifteen and sixteen, and in the full
vigour of youth. He raised his penetrating
large black eyes to my face, whilst I
made my enquiries of the woman, relative
to the condition of his father. Her replies
were not unfavourable; and never shall I
forget the look of gratitude I then received!
But overcome by his sensibility,
212he wept most bitterly, and hid his face.
Captain Nelson entered at this moment.
“Why, how is this, my boy,” cried he
endeavouring to hide his feelings, “Did
you not promise to have a good heart!
The doctor will soon set us all to rights
again; so have courage.” The doctor,
my dear Sir, was not so sanguine; but
recommending silence and repose took his
leave: George assuring me, that he would
watch his father’s eyes, and those would
tell him what he wanted. In the evening
I was with him again. All was in order,
and a silence, like death, prevailed in the
room. George was reading a French Telemachus;
the patient was dosing; and
the negro woman was dismissed for some
hours of needful rest. The next day I
had hopes, that my patient had a chance;
but the following morning I found, to my
surprise, only the nurse with him. On enquiry,
I learned from her, that his father
had sent him with a letter to the Creek
213plantation. “Why did you not find a
porter?” asked I. “Because he said,”
answered she, in a low whisper, “he
could not die contented, unless he knew
that it was delivered to Mr. Flamall.”
Though by no means pleased with this exertion
of writing, I said but little to the
sick man, contenting myself with his answer.
“I shall write no more.” I prolonged
my stay, partly to supply nurse’s
absence, whom I sent for something needful,
and partly to gratify my curiosity.
The sick man’s person was calculated to
excite it. His physiognomy was noble;
his features regular; dark blue eyes, which,
though sunk and dimmed by his condition,
were expressive of manly fortitude;
his hair was of a light chestnut colour, but
in places, striped with the signs of age,
for it was even changed to nearly white;
he was extremely fair; and the paleness
of death was relieved, by a lingering colour
in his lips. Observing the beauty of
214his teeth, I asked him his age. He replied,
that he believed he was turned of
fifty. He was neatly dressed in a blue
and white cotton waistcoat and trowsers;
and reclined on the outside of the matrass.
A statuary would not have wished for a
more perfect model of the human form!
He was in height, I should think, within
six feet. I observed to him, that his
chest was not made to oppress his lungs;
and that I flattered myself, the malady
which had so suddenly overtaken him,
might have for its course, a less dangerous
source. He smiled, and said, he had
never had any tendency to consumptive
symptoms; nor did he ever attribute his
want of health to a weak constitution. At
this instant George entered, covered with
dust, and exhausted by heat and fatigue.
He approached the bed, and said, “I
have seen Mr. Flamall, and given your
letter into his own hand.” “It is
well:” replied my patient, with an
215emotion that alarmed me; for I was still
feeling the pulse, and those would have
betrayed it, without the suffusion which
passed his cheek. I turned towards George,
and after lecturing him with kindness, for
his imprudent speed, I insisted on his
leaving the room, and laying down for
some hours. A sign, from his father
which he understood, made him docile,
and he retired. Soon after I left the sick
room, cautioning the nurse, neither to admit
Mr. Flamall nor any message from him
or others to reach her charge; and taking
some sherbet in my hand, I sought
George’s little room. He had obeyed me,
and had taken off his clothes. I told him
the consequences which would result from
any exertion or surprise to his father;
warning him to be on the watch. He
said, he did not believe his father expected
either a visit, or an answer from the gentleman
in question. He had told him not
to wait for any orders; and had appeared
216only anxious, that his own letter should
reach him safely.
I proceeded to the coffee-house, where,
as I expected, I met Captain Nelson. I
gave him this detail; and he thought no
more of it, I believe, for he was surrounded
by busy faces; and he told me, that he
should be with Charles soon, and would
meet me at Mr. Gilpin’s before sunset.
I dined with my friend; and we were
quietly conversing, when Captain Nelson
bursting into the room, said with agony,
“it is all over with him! nothing can now
save him!” I waited not for more intelligence,
but seizing my hat, hastily made
my way to the sick man, Nelson following
me. It was, indeed, “all over with
him;” all our care and attention availed
nothing! For in a few hours he died.
Poor Nelson, during this scene of painful
suspense, lamented, in terms of the bitterest
grief, that he had caused the relapse.
He said, that he had found him
217quiet and apparently easy. “The nurse
said George was sound asleep, and mentioned
your orders,” added the captain.
“I asked Charles what were his connexions
with Mr. Flamall;” he calmly replied,
that he had known him in his youth.
“And was that all?” asked I; “come,
be open with me, you have had George in
your head, I dare say, and fancying to
make a friend for the poor lad; but give
yourself no concern about him. Let the
worst come to the worst, he will never want
a father whilst I have a guinea; so try and
be a man again, and the brother of one
who loves you as a brother.” He grasped
my hand with convulsive strength. “My
God!” said he aloud, “I thank thee, and
die satisfied that thou art a God, merciful
and gracious!” “The blood again
gushed from his mouth; and I flew to
Gilpin’s.”
I will pass over the sorrow of his poor
George, in order to hasten to the next still
218more serious and shocking event. Mr. Sinclair,
the brother of my patient, Mrs. Flint,
brought me a summons to “Upland,” the
residence of the family, prepared to expect
hourly the lady’s want of my assistance.
I accompanied her brother home;
but found Mrs. Flint, though in her own
apartment, with her female friends, perfectly
contented with my being within the
house. The interval was devoted to my
friend Philip’s amusement, whose anxiety
for the safety of his wife was apparent.
We were rallying him on this subject;
and drinking to the health of his expected
blessing, when Mr. Sinclair was called
from the table. I will pass over the detail.
Juba, an old and freed slave of the late
Mr. Cowley’s, but who has from his master’s
death remained in his post of superintendent
at the Creek house, was the
bearer of the intelligence which follows;
and which you will conceive produced the
most dreadful sensations of horror and
219surprise. “Mr. Flamall was dead, and
by his own hand!” Sinclair and myself
lost no time, in returning with Juba,
leaving Mr. Flint to the care of Mr.
Lindsey, and Mr. Montrose, his friends,
and inmates.
On the road Juba gave us the following
particulars. On the preceding morning,
he it was, who saw George, who enquired
of him for Mr. Flamall, saying, he had
a letter to deliver to him, which he was
ordered to give to no other person. “I
asked the lad from whom he had received
his commission,” continued the faithful
Juba, and he replied, from Captain Nelson’s
steward. Knowing that we had many
bales in his ship, I immediately concluded,
that the letter referred to business,
relative to these goods; and I was on the
point of telling the young man, that I
would be answerable for the safety of the
letter; but at that moment, Mr. Flamall
appeared, and took it himself. I shall be
220at Kingston to day, said he, holding the
letter carelessly in his hand, and shall
speak to your captain. The lad bowed,
and was retreating; when Mr. Flamall
asked him to rest, and take some refreshment.
He declined the offer, replying
that his father would want him. I entered
the house; and he departed. Mr. Flamall
was not long, I believe, before he went to
his apartment. He saw no one for some
hours; at length he rang his bell, and ordered
his horse to be prepared. We have
lately observed him as a man struggling
with something wrong in his mind. He
has been very odd at times; and his groom
said, he was in one of his silent fits; and
chose to go by himself. He did not return
home, till a late hour in the evening.
The horse appeared heated and fatigued.
He went to his bed room, saying, that he
wanted nothing then, and should ring in
the morning, when he did. Hour succeeded
hour. We heard him pacing in
221the library; and we began to fear that all
was not right with him. “His servant was
curious, as well as uneasy; he stopped
me on the staircase, to tell me, that he
had peeped through the key hole, that
his master was in his wrapping gown and
night cap, and was writing, and with a
countenance that made him tremble:
another servant was going to make his observations
by the same means,” continued
poor Juba, “when the report of a pistol
checked him, and appalled us all. We
burst into the room. It was too late! you
will see such a corpse! I lost not, however,
my presence of mind; one look at the
shattered mangled head of the poor wretch
was enough for me! But whilst others
were gazing on the scene of horror, I secured
the written papers on his desk;
which I will now give you.”
Juba drew the rumpled sheets of paper
from his bosom, and presented them to
Mr. Sinclair. It is needless for me to
222add, that the horrid explosion, had done
its work. The aim was sure!
Herewith, you have the copies of the
two letters above mentioned. Mr. Sinclair
recommends caution to you in respect
to their mysterious contents.
I shall have perhaps time to add something
more to this letter; but lest I be
mistaken, receive, Sir, the unfeigned regard,
and sympathy of your very humble
servant,
Thomas Paget.
(Enclosed in Mr. Paget’s.)
To Mr. Flamall.
Shouldest thou start, Flamall, at
the sight of these well known characters,
for my hand, like my heart, has but one223for my purposes. Should thy knees tremble,
and the blood recede in terror from
thy cheek, bless Heaven! Hail these indications
of its mercy! Thou hast not yet
outlived humanity, thou art not yet abandoned
to everlasting destruction. Be it so!
Oh God, infinite in goodness, almighty
in power!
Were I certain, Flamall, that with the
form of man there were yet one single
spark left unextinguished of the spirit of
a man, I would invite thee to my dying
couch, for it is near thee. I would bid
thee compare it with thy nightly bed of
prosperous villany. And here settle those
accounts of the guardianship and gains.
Though for years in bondage, I have been
free from guilt. No parent will demand
from me a ruined oppressed son; no confederate
in vice and cruelty and treachery
will point to me as the betrayer of his soul!
But thou wilt recall to memory the issue
224of thy crimes; and the names of thy agents
in mischief.
I die in peace. My wife knows my innocence
and my wrongs. If it be needful
for thy repentance, apply to her; and with
the tale of thy brotherly care, of an innocent,
and virtuous orphan-sister, thou
mayest have the relation of the woes thou
hast inflicted on thy ward Charles.
Detain not the messenger: I wait his
return to breathe my last sigh on his
faithful bosom. Thou hast been defeated,
Flamall! The tear of affection will fall on
my remains; and I shall be remembered
as one who has not lived to be the fell destroyer
of my fellow-man, nor as one
abandoned by his Maker.
225
(Enclosed in Mr. Paget’s.)
Horror! unutterable horror! anguish,
despair! Twist not thus my brain!
he is dead! and died with his hopes! expecting
to be welcomed in a new existence,
by assembled angels, hailed by spirits
like his own, and received by a God of
mercy who will recompense his long sufferings
and faith.—Delusions all! The tales
of the nursery made up for children! I
reject them. When these atoms which
compose this palpitating frame are disunited
I shall be at peace: for I shall be
nothing. But wherefore do I pause?
226What is to me the world to which I now
cleave? Why does my heart turn to
thee, Philip? I know thou also abhorrest
me, yet I would not have thee curse me,
for of all men, I have a claim to thy pity.
I love thee still. I would bless thee, but
I dare not. For if there be a God, whose
awful indignation takes cognizance of sin;
my blessing would be converted into a malediction
on thy head. Blot me from thy
memory; acknowledge not the name of
Flamall, nor permit thy children to know,
that I was once thy guide, thy friend——Nay——Distraction!
Why do I
hesitate——
Mr. Paget in continuation.
It is needless to make any comments on
the foregoing letters. It is but too apparent,
that Flamall was the aggressor; beyond
this all is conjecture. We have, on
our part, acted with caution. Captain
Nelson has been questioned closely, as to
227his knowledge of the person, supposed to
have been the cause of the dreadful end of
Mr. Flamall. He repeated, on oath, his
evidence in favour of this unknown, and
adhered to the account he had before given
me of his acquaintance with him;
adding, that he had not a doubt of his
having been an injured man. His sorrow,
for his loss, was not concealed; for he
even shed tears, and with an oath affirmed,
that not only himself but every man in his
ship had lost a brother. Poor George was
with him, and looked the picture of despair:
he was examined also: he had never
heard his father and protector name
Mr. Flamall until the morning he gave
him the letter. Not a single paper was
found in his chest, except a note, in which
he gives, with his blessing, his little property
of clothes, linen, and a few books
to this boy. Thus, has every enquiry terminated.
I cannot help believing, that
you will be gratified by knowing, that
228Captain Nelson means to protect the lad in
question.
Mr. Flamall has been careful to leave
no traces behind him, that may help to
elucidate this mystery, or throw a light
on any other of his private concerns.
Not a paper, nor a letter escaped his vigilant
cautions. Juba tells us, that from
the time his nephew’s marriage was announced,
he has suspected his mind to
have been deranged at times, and that he
was continually reading and burning letters
and papers when in his room. One
striking proof of his former connexion
with the unfortunate stranger, Charles, is
much talked of. He called at the house
where he lodged and died; and to the
enquiries he made concerning the sick
man, one of the servants answered, that
he was dead. He said, he wished to see
him, having known him in his youth.
The negro woman attended him to the
deceased man’s room. He looked attentively
229at the corpse; appeared agitated,
and sighing said, “his troubles are over.”
But such was the impression the object
before him had produced, that he left the
house, and forgot his horse, which he had
tied to the door he had passed. A waiter
perceiving it, followed him with the animal;
he mounting, and without speaking,
put him on his full speed.
Thomas Paget.
CHAP. XI. — LETTER LXVIII. From Capt. Sinclair to Capt. Flint. — LETTER LXIX. From Dr. Douglass to Mr. Hardcastle. — LETTER LXX. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LXXI. From Mr. Serge to Mrs. Heartley. — LETTER LXXII. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.
230
My Dear Sir, Jamaica.
Our worthy and zealous friend Mr.
Paget having spared me the painful detail
of events, which, of late, have rendered
this abode of peace one of sorrow
and consternation, I will employ my pen
on subjects of better and renewed hopes.
In the first place, Lady Maclairn will be
soothed by hearing, that Philip is the father
of a fine healthy boy; and that the
mother is doing well, and already the
nurse. She has been cautiously told of
231Mr. Flamall’s death; and thus the suspense
and alarm avoided, that would have
been occasioned by her seeing her husband’s
dejection, which was but too apparent,
in spite of his endeavours. We
must give him credit for more sensibility
on this melancholy occasion, than we feel
ourselves. To say the truth, the termination
of a life passed without honour or satisfaction,
is, in my opinion, little entitled
to the tear of affection; although the
means, which Flamall employed for the
purpose, are appalling to nature and to
the Christian. It is a happy circumstance
for my brother, that he has uniformly conducted
himself in respect to his uncle, so
as to have secured his own self acquittal.
This, with the prospect of happiness, before
his eyes, will, in time, restore him.
We shall, however, wait with anxiety for
news from Farefield. Had not his wife’s
critical situation checked his solicitude for
his mother, I believe we could not have
232prevented his undertaking the voyage to
England, for the purpose of supporting
her, in the trial which nearly overset
himself.
I beg you to be particular in your account
of Lady Maclairn’s health, as also
Miss Flint’s.
Let Miss Cowley be assured, that her
concerns will suffer nothing from the loss
of her agent. We have been fortunate in
having with us a Mr. Montrose; this gentleman
is the early friend of Philip and
Margaret; and is brother to Mrs. Lindsey,
my sister’s first nurse, and constant
companion at present.
Montrose makes a better consoler than
myself. I therefore yield up to him this
office; as being his by profession; and
no man can better know, and perform his
duty. I have not, however, been idle.
The attested papers you will receive with
this, will inform you that all has been done
that could be done. Flamall’s late gloom
233and the evidence of the servants, induced
the coroner’s inquest to give in a verdict of
lunacy. We have discovered no letters
nor papers of consequence, to his private
concerns; and one letter excepted, of a
recent date, from his banker, which mentions
his having received the half year’s
interest of five thousand pounds Bank
stock: this of course devolves to his sister.
I cannot conclude this letter, without telling
you, that I believe, from the order in
which all Flamall’s accounts were, that he
has, for sometime, been meditating how
to escape from a world, in which he knew
he was regarded with contempt. You
may think me too harsh; be it so. But
believe me sincere and honest, and
Your’s to command,
Francis Sinclair.
234
Farefield, Dec. 30.
I conjure you, my dear Sir, to rely on
my assurances. Miss Cowley is entirely
out of danger. We have a decided intermission,
and are hourly gaining on the
enemy. But I will not disguise my fears,
for the consequences which will probably
result from you and Miss Hardcastle’s visit
here at this time. The truth is, that as terror
and exertions beyond Miss Cowley’s
strength, produced the fever, it is my
opinion, that joy, and a new demand on
her feelings, will produce a return of it.
Calmness and repose are necessary to give
efficacy to the medicines which have hitherto
been useful, and I entreat of you,
235to postpone your journey, till my patient
is more able to welcome you.
To say what this young creature’s fortitude
has been, is beyond my abilities! I
only know, that I shall in future blush,
when I hear strength of mind called a masculine
endowment.
You will easily imagine, how little prepared
she was, after the attention and exertions
she had shown to Lady Maclairn,
to sustain the sudden terror, which Miss
Flint’s death produced. Every precaution
had been used to prevent the intelligence
of Mr. Flamall’s death, from reaching
the dying woman. She was so weak,
as to bear with apathy her sister’s absence
from the room; indeed, she noticed little
those who were about her, being for
the most part in a lethargic stupor, and
gradually sinking. In the neighbourhood
it was, however, no secret that Mr. Flamall
had died suddenly. Warner, Miss
Flint’s woman, had in the morning left
236her post to a chamber maid, in order to
get some repose. This girl’s mother had
been frequently employed in the sick
room, and she, on calling to see her
daughter, was directed where to find her.
Miss Flint was heavily dozing, and the
women, though with precaution, as they
say, talked of poor Lady Maclairn’s illness,
and the melancholy news from Jamaica.
The visitor had heard the report,
which has circulated here, and which a
London newspaper has communicated to
the public. Namely, that, “Mr. Flamall
was assassinated by a negro, whom he
had too severely treated.” I suspect the
precaution of whispering this tale was
forgotten, in the eagerness of curiosity
and the love of the marvellous. Suddenly,
they were alarmed by a faint scream from
the sick woman, who, with convulsive
groans and agitations, said, “dead! murdered!
lost! for ever lost! Flamall!”
Screams followed this apostrophe, and the
237terrified girl ran to Miss Cowley’s room.
She was unfortunately sleeping on the sopha,
after having passed the greater part
of the night by Lady Maclairn´s bed side.
She rose with firmness, to perform the
duty to which she was summoned; not
permitting Mrs. Allen to be informed of
what was passing; because she was with
Lady Maclairn. I found her calm and
collected; sitting by the dying Miss
Flint, whose senses were lost before she
ceased to breathe. Let me finish this melancholy
detail, by saying, that I did not
quit Miss Cowley’s bed side for the space
of six and thirty hours. Heaven was merciful!
and she will be restored to health.
But we must have no beloved friends to
greet at present.
I quit you to obey the summons of my
precious patient. She insists upon signing
this bulletin. She will soon be well; for
she is growing saucy, and this morning,
at four o’clock, when I carried her the
238prescribed potion, she told me “that in
my night cap and gown, I was the very
image of Blue Beard; and still more savage
than he; for, that his scymitar was
nothing in comparison with my glass of
poison.” Judge with what contentment
of mind I now sign the name of your
sincere
Archibald Douglass.
P.S. Indeed, my dear Lucy, I am getting
well. They tell me, the wind is still
against the Lisbon packet’s sailing. How
fortunate I am! There! the whole junto
are rising! and the inkstand has vanished.
Your’s! your own R. Cowley is, indeed,
only too weak to mutiny against this authority.
239
It is with gratitude to Heaven, that I
find my dear friends at Heathcot, are relieved
from their too tender anxieties and
apprehensions on my account, yet wherefore
do I say “too tender,” I recall the
words, my Lucy, which my heart does
not sanction, and I will not assume a virtue
I have not; I give you joy, that death
has spared to you your Rachel Cowley. I
rejoice in your love; and I participate in
your present feelings. Your goodness to
Horace has contributed towards my restoration.
I should have died, had you mentioned
your terrors to him.
I have written to him the state of affairs
here. He will be satisfied, that the recent
240events, in which I have been engaged, occasioned
the brevity of my letter.
Mrs. Heartley sends her love to you
with the enclosed: she insists, that you
will be better pleased with it, than with
my labours. They have, amongst them,
annihilated the self will of your
Rachel Cowley.
(Enclosed in the preceding.)
Madam, Putney.
I make no doubt, but that you have
heard Mr. Maclairn mention his friend
Jeremiah Serge; and that you are convinced,
241I mean to deserve my title. I
shall, therefore, enter into the business
before us at once. Herewith you will receive
the deeds, which secure to your
daughter and her children the estate called
the Wenland Farm, now occupied by
Malcolm Maclairn; the day she becomes
that gentleman’s wife, he is her tenant
and his children’s steward. Counsellor
Steadman has managed this affair for me,
to my entire satisfaction, and I trust it will
not be less so to my young friend.
I have, for the first time, during many
long weeks, felt that the Almighty has
yet the means in his hands with which to
heal my wounds. I never, Mrs. Heartley,
had a son; I have not, like Sir Murdoch,
had a son like his Malcolm, to follow
me in my feeble steps, with duty and
affection; nor try to perpetuate my name,
and his own virtues to children unborn;
but I had a child, who was, whilst she
lived, the joy and the prop of my life!
242But you know what I have had to suffer!
I am forgetting the object of this letter.
From the first hour I knew Mr. Malcolm
Maclairn, I took a liking to him;
this goodwill was, in part, owing to the
favourable character I had of him from my
excellent friend, Counsellor Steadman.
Some particulars I learned from this gentleman,
led me to think that it was in my
power to serve this worthy young man;
and with this intention, and other thoughts
in my mind, I paid my visit to Farefield
Hall. I was in part disappointed in my
scheme; but I saw the young man was
all, and more, than I expected, and I gave
him my heart, though I could not give
him my daughter’s hand. I thought I
had explained myself to his good father,
in regard to my views in assisting the son;
but I perceived, that Sir Murdoch had a
little of the infirmity, which is common
to men of high birth; so I consulted the
243counsellor, and did what I could without
offending the baronet’s high spirit.
Believing that you are a very judicious
lady, I request from you the favour, in
case you should see the good baronet’s
scruples, to say what, in truth, you may
affirm, that you perceive nothing in my
conduct, that ought either to offend, or
surprise him.
Some men, with less wealth than I possess,
keep fine houses, fine madams, and
fine horses; buy fine pictures, and plant
fine gardens. Now, Mrs. Heartley, I have
no taste nor pleasure in these things; seeing
I was not brought up to like, or understand
them; but this is no reason
why my money should be useless to me,
and if I can purchase, by my superfluity,
the happiness of having such a friend as
Malcolm Maclairn, I should be a fool
not to have done what I have done. So,
heartily wishing the young couple happy,
244and recommending to your fair daughter to
marry her tenant directly,
I remain, your sincere,
Jeremiah Serge.
January 12.
My patience is recompensed. “I may
write half an hour, seeing that scribbling
is the aliment some girls live upon.”
This is my kind doctor, Lucy; and if you
had seen how grateful I was for this indulgence,
you would be of Mrs. Heartley’s
opinion, who has pronounced my fever
good for something; for that it has
245saved Lady Maclairn’s life; and, as you
may perceive, has taught me to submit.
Blessed be God for the renewal of that
life, which is so dear to my friends! and
which I may, if it be not my fault, still
render a blessing to them and myself.
We are once more in sight of the harbour
of peace; not indeed of that peace
which “this world can neither give nor
take away,” but of that season of tranquillity,
which, in mercy, is allotted to man,
in order, as it should seem, to give us
time to refit our feeble bark, and to rectify
the chart, to which we have hitherto trusted;
to recover by repose, strength and
vigour for the storms and perils we may
yet have to encounter in our passage to
eternity; and to leave behind us traces of
that providential power which hath piloted
us home.
You will like to have the particulars of
Miss Flint’s will. It will satisfy you, as
it has done me, that a death-bed repentance
246is much better than none. She specifies,
that, in consideration of her brother
Oliver’s donation to Philip Flint, it appears
to be an incumbent duty on her part,
to provide for those of her family, who
have been too long neglected, and to the
last moment of her mortal life, will she
bless Philip Flint, for having seconded
her in this act of justice, by his advice
and concurrence.
The Farefield estate, with the moveables,
besides a considerable sum in money,
which will devolve on him as residuary
legatee, are left to Captain Flint for
his life; at his decease they go to Philip
Flint, to whom she has only bequeathed
five thousand pounds “as a token of her
love.” To her niece Mary the same sum,
payable when she is of age, and five more
at her uncle’s decease. To Malcolm Maclairn
two thousand pounds, “as a mark of
her esteem for him, and gratitude to his
mother.” By the way, poor Malcolm
247was nearly overpowered by this mark, for
he had not mourned as one who needed
comfort; and I suspect that his conscience
was not quite prepared for the legacy.
To the poor of the parish she has left
a liberal peace offering: to her servants
she has been generous and just: to Warner,
her woman, she leaves a thousand pounds.
Flamall’s execrable name does not appear
in any paper that is left; and yet the
contents of the cabinet left to Lady Maclairn’s
inspection, clearly prove that Miss
Flint had long been engaged by the
thoughts of death. Not a friend has been
overlooked but Flamall, and it is evident
to me, that she ceased to regard him even
in that point of view, from the time he
declared his marriage. I suspect she was
informed of his baseness in that business.
All her little donations were marked and
ticketed by her own hand. To Sir Murdoch
she leaves a very fine seal; its antiquity
as well as beauty, make it valuable.
248To Mrs. Allen a gold snuff box, containing
an hundred pound bank note, “for
mourning;” for Miss Cowley a diamond
ring. To each of Douglass’s boys a hundred
guineas for books, and three hundred
pounds in notes, for their worthy father.
A small box, directed “to my niece,
Mary Howard, as a token of my too late
repentance and unfeigned love.” The
captain, who was present when her ladyship
performed this painful office, was so
much affected by the sight of this box,
that he burst into tears, and, with extreme
agitation, tore off the address, and put it
in his bosom. Philip Flint had not been
overlooked in this partition of kindness.
Her picture in miniature, taken at the
time he was born, with a rich string of
pearls that had been her mother’s, were
marked for him and his wife. We have
since examined Mary’s gift. Some fine
lace, and a few family jewels are the principal
things. When you have cautiously
249informed her, that, from her aunt’s hand,
she has restored to her what she will
judge to be invaluable, namely, her father’s
and mother’s pictures, so long lost! so
deeply regretted! But I am called to order;
and you will be contented with this
four day’s labour of your poor shackled
Rachel Cowley; who is bound, though in
silken fetters. You know that the Heartleys
are here. I gain nothing by that;
for they are as bad as any of my arguseyed
nurses.
P. S. My dear Miss Hardcastle, we
have now only to fear that our patient
should be too soon well. She has no fever,
but that which arises from her exertions.
She cannot vegetate, to use her
own word; and she thinks her body is
strong, because her mind is never idle.
It is in vain that we oppose her. She
will write; and then who can wonder
that she does not sleep! Use your
250influence, and give us time to recruit her
strength.
Yours,
A. Heartley.
Mrs. Allen is in good spirits. She has
left me nothing to say in regard to Doctor
Douglass. But, I verily believe, his care
saved the life of our precious friend. She
was, indeed, for some hours, so ill as to
leave little for hope. I leave Alice to express,
to my dear Mary, all that my full
heart feels on her account.
CHAP. XII. — LETTER LXXIII. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LXXIV. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LXXV. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.
251
January 29.
Although in the calculation of
months and weeks, I have contrived to beguile
the lagging hours which are still between
me and my promised bliss, I have
not yet been able to find an expedient for
the day, without scribbling to you. It
seems to be the aliment necessary for my
existence; and notwithstanding I could
match an hungry school boy, in my appetite
for my pudding, I could sooner
console myself for the absence of my dinner,
than of the use of my right hand, as
252the agent of my fondest, sweetest employment.
I have written a volume to Horace;
and he will know as much of the
occurrences at Farefield, as will content
him. He will know that I am in health
and in hope. Say not a word of my having
been so ill. The old bard says, “men
are deceivers ever.” A woman therefore,
may for once deceive, when in that deceit,
she spares to a beloved object the useless
anxiety arising from past danger and past
pains.
Yesterday our “busy-heads” went to
Wenland place, in order to give their
opinion of certain alterations and improvements
projected by the new tenant Malcolm.
I was ordered to stay at home by
my despotical doctor, and Lady Maclairn
promised to take good care of me.
They departed after breakfast, meaning
to dine at Mr. Wilson’s, and left us
to a danger, as bad as cold rooms. I soon
found it impossible to evade the topic I
so much dreaded for her; she at once
253led to the subject by saying, that she had
still secrets to communicate to her only
comforter, but that she feared my sensibility.
I desired her to proceed. “Some
time before my sister’s death,” continued
she, “I received this sealed parcel from
her hands. It is, as you see, addressed
to myself. I hesitated when she offered
it to my acceptance. She observed my reluctance.”
“Make yourself perfectly
easy,” said Miss Flint, “it contains nothing
but papers essentially necessary for
your future security. I cannot die, without
telling you that they are necessary.
You do not know your brother, Harriet,
so well as I do; and I must tell you, what
steps I have taken to secure you from his
future tyranical power. I shall die, however,
without bitterness of spirit. I once
loved Flamall; I do not accuse him here;
nor will I accuse him hereafter; for my
own envy, my own implacable spirit, my
own stubborn and hard heart prepared
the way for the influence of his inordinate
254purposes, and more deliberate mischiefs.
As a father, he has been equally base and
cruel. Philip has informed me of the measures
he pursued, in order to gratify his
ambition in regard to his son’s marriage
with Miss Cowley. Let it suffice, that
they were such as did not surprise me. I
immediately wrote to Mr. Flamall. You
will find a copy of my letter amongst those
papers. He knows, that I have, by a
full and ample confession of my crimes, so
implicated them with those which he has
committed, as must ruin him in this world,
if discovered; and as inevitably destroy
his hopes of a better, if he do not repent.
Should he ever dare to disturb the comforts
of my son, by a declaration of his
real affinity to him; should he ever dare
farther to invade on your peace; he knows
what must be the consequence. Actions,
which will be recognisable in a court of
justice, will determine his fate, and crush
with ignominy his worthy and unoffending
255child. Obdurate as he is in sin, nature is
not extinguished in his bosom. He loves
his son, and, I am certain, would sooner
die himself, than see him disgraced in the
world: time may soften to him his present
disappointment. I have urged to
Philip every possible measure, in order to
effect a reconciliation between him and
his uncle Flamall. He may, if he be wise,
live on good terms with his son, and if he
be not lost to conscience, he may find
employment, for his remaining term of
grace.” “You weep, my dear Harriet,”
continued my poor Lucretia; I cannot.
How many bitter tears of yours will swell
my account; for I was born for your sorrow!
and the ruin of the innocent! Can
you give comfort to the broken and contrite
of heart? Can you say you forgive
me? “As freely,” answered I eagerly,
“as I hope for mercy and pardon. I have
also sinned, I have also erred.” “Yes,” replied
she, with quickness; “but the snare
256was laid for you; and you only stumbled.
I boldly invited the danger, and made an
acquaintance with guilt and perfidy; see
to what purpose? to languish with a mother’s
yearnings, to behold and bless that
child, who would shrink from me as a
monster, did he know me; to dread the
future, and to mourn, too late, the wretchedness
annexed to a life of guilt. Promise
me,” added she, “to be still my Philip’s
mother. Let me die in the hope, that,
you will never forego the title.” “Never,”
answered I, sensible only to her condition,
“never, whilst it depends on me to preserve
it; he is mine in affection, and nothing
can cancel his rights to my love.”
“May Heaven reward you,” exclaimed
she, in an agony. “May that child’s children
bless and revere you——My poor boy
will not be surprised at the tenor of my
last will,” continued she thoughtfully.
“He is rich; and I have explained my intentions,
in regard to my brother and
257Mary. It required very few arguments to
prove, that they had not been justly treated.
But let me not think of their wrongs!
I wrote him word, that it was essentially
necessary to my peace to consider them.
His last letter was a cordial to my sinking
soul; he urges me even to omit his name,
if it interfered with my kind purposes;
that he possessed more than he wanted of
the goods of fortune. Judge, adds he,
when I tell you that my brother has frequently
realized fourteen thousand pounds
annually from his estates: Judge whether,
my dear, I may say maternal friend and
sister, needs bequeath me more than her
blessing and her love.” “I wear at my
heart this precious letter,” added she,
taking it from her bosom; “but you
must take it with the papers. His picture
may yet remain, I mean it should moulder
into dust with me.”—She paused—“I
think,” pursued she, as though collecting
herself, “that I may hope to stand acquitted
258before my Maker for the last and
only compensation I can make to some,
whom I have injured; perhaps strict justice
would exact more sacrifices. But I
am a mother, Harriet; the guilty mother,
of an innocent child, now a worthy member
of society. Something is surely due
to him; and thy merciful Maker will not
weigh this consideration in the balance of
offended justice. Such has been my state
of mind for some time past, that had it not
been for Philip, I would have fearlessly
met every stigma with which this world
could have branded me, for the hopes of
meeting with a reconciled God. It becomes
not me to say, that I think, in this
instance of my conduct, I have acted right.
But conscience has at least been my
guide; I have done for the best. Will
not that prudence, which will protect the
honour of your family, and the happiness
of mine, sanction your secresy in regard
to the birth of thy poor——!” She could
259not go on. Again I soothed her to composure,
I solemnly repeated my promise,
my dear Miss Cowley, that I would preserve
our secret from every danger of a
disclosure. “This engagement now distresses
me,” continued Lady Maclairn,
“I fear I have been wrong; but what
could I do, in a moment of such difficulty?
I was unequal to the trial; I could
not see her die miserable.”—
I placed before Lady Maclairn the wonderful
interference of Providence, which
had removed the guilty, to secure the
innocent. I urged to her the purity of
her intentions, and the humanity which
pointed out to her the line of conduct she
had pursued, and had engaged to pursue.
“Repose on your merciful Maker,” added
I, “for an acquittal, where you mean to
do for the best; patiently wait the end,
when this darkness shall be removed; and
you will, I trust, find, that having lived
to promote the happiness of others, to
260have contributed to the comfort and security
of your family has not been to live
in vain. Be assured, my dear friend,
that your sufferings will have their place
with a Being “who knoweth what is in
man; and with a Father, who loveth his
children, you may reasonably hope for
acceptance and favour.”” “You are my
comforter,” replied she, meekly raising
her eyes to Heaven; “I have not outlived
this first of all human hopes. My weakness,
not my will, has betrayed me from
the paths of rectitude. But it is difficult
for me, to conceal my feelings. I dare not
even break the seal, which confines my
knowledge to what I already know of the
wretched life and conduct of my brother;
I sometimes think I shall lose my senses,
in reflecting on his end, and the enormities
of his conduct. Oh, it is dreadful,
Miss Cowley, to follow him to that tribunal
before which he must appear!——Leave
me for a while,” added she, sobbing,
261“leave me to my God, to my Almighty
supporter”——I obeyed, too much affected
to resist. I took the papers with
me. She has acted prudently in not reading
them. She begs they may be forwarded
to you, and that the whole transaction
may remain in your hands. You are allowed
to read them. What will you say
to the letter marked No. 4? The one she
burned was the answer to it; but I dare
not pursue this horrid subject. My eyes
would betray me, and the doctor would
be angry; for he has made me promise
not to harrass my spirits, and to check
my friend’s sorrows. I am going to her!
and we will be wise. The return of the
vagrants renders this necessary.
Yours,
Rachel Cowley.
P. S. Sedley will give you this.
262
Again I am permitted to take a better
cordial than bark. Mrs. Heartley has
fully explained to us the mystery relative
to the portraits in Miss Flint’s possession.
It appears that Mrs. Howard, apprehending
that they would be more pernicious to her
brother, than consolatory, requested Mrs.
Heartley to secrete them from his search.
She obeyed her dying friend. “But,”
added Mrs. Heartley, “my feelings at this
juncture were nearly as little under the
control of my reason, as poor Percival’s.
I wrote a letter to Miss Flint, which was
dictated by my sorrow, and the romantic
hope of touching her heart in favour of a
child whom she had contributed to render
263an orphan and a beggar. I enclosed these
powerful pleaders,” continued Mrs. Heartley,
taking up the miniatures, and surveying
them with emotion, “and my
language was not less forcible. Malcolm
was employed to place my packet in her
hands. He effected his purpose; for she
found it on her dressing table. The next
morning he was questioned, and he frankly
owned, that he had, at my request, placed
the parcel where she had found it. You
have been faithful, Sir, in the performance
of your commission, said Miss Flint,
trembling and pale with fury; “be so in
delivering my message to your Mrs. Heartley.
Tell her, that her insolent and officious
interference has failed, and that
whilst Miss Flint’s family have no better
advocates than a kept mistress, she wants
no apology for renouncing it.” Malcolm
bluntly told her, that she must employ
some one to deliver such a message who
had never heard of Mrs. Heartley; for
264himself, he begged leave to decline insulting
his best friend. I heard no more
from Miss Flint; and I concluded that she
had destroyed the portraits in a similar
manner as she had that of her mother.
Frustrated in my project, I was forced to
conceal this occurrence; and the pictures
were supposed to be irrecoverably and unaccountably
lost.”
Although my conscience reproached
me frequently when hearing the captain
bewail this loss, it never did so as to the
motive from which I had acted: but it is
to be feared, that my zeal in the cause of
the injured, disqualified me for making a
convert to justice and humanity. It is
most probable that I irritated where I
wished to heal; and it is certain, that I
was from that time the object of Miss
Flint’s implacable resentment. “Poor woman!”
continued Mrs. Heartley, with
compassion, “she was then under the miserable
yoke of those passions, which
265although they govern, cannot blind us.
Neither her spirit of resentment, nor any
entrenchment from her prosperous fortune,
could shield her from the voice within her
bosom. It spoke my language with tenfold
energy, and she hated me, because
she knew I was in unison with her conscience.
She shunned me, as she would
have shunned that, had she been able.”
“Is it not unaccountable,” added Mrs.
Heartley, addressing me, “that any rational
being should fear to encounter the
eyes of a fellow creature under the circumstances
of guilt, nay, even of folly,
without considering the power of conscience,
from whose suggestions this very
dread arises. That Miss Flint was sensible
of its power is certain. Nor do I
believe, with some, that it is possible for
us to outlive its authority. When I hear
of such, who are said to be hardened by
sin, and become callous by guilt, I no
more believe it, than I do those tales I hear
266of the elixir for perpetuating our existence
here for ever. I am convinced that
God will not be mocked by the creatures
of his power, and I have only to follow the
bold and impious offender of his laws to
his hours of privacy, to learn, that he cannot
evade that Being’s presence, whose
commands he insults.” I was more disposed
to shorten this conversation, than
to dispute the truths it contained. Lady
Maclairn’s conscience wants no stimulants.
Douglass entered, and we became
cheerful. You love the doctor, you say,
prithee who does not? but no one shall
love him so well as Horace. You have
heard of his gallantry three or four
nights he past in my antichamber!
Rachel Cowley.
267
I am, my dear friend, so powerfully
impressed by the perusal of Miss Flint’s
confession, as her legacy to Lady Maclairn
may with truth be called, that I cannot
divert my mind from the subject. What
a scene of iniquity have I sent you!
and how rejoiced am I, that I prevailed on
Lady Maclairn not to tear open those
wounds afresh by reading a detailed account
of actions and artifices which her
brother employed to defraud Mr. Flint’s
children of their rights. Surely, my Lucy,
the death of Flamall was “a consummation
devoutly to be wished.” To be
removed from the indignation of the injured,
to be spared from the abhorrence
268of the virtuous; to be saved from the
constant dread of living an object amenable
to the most vigorous laws of his
country; to be freed from the horrors of
his dying bed! But how momentary is
this delusion of feeling! My reason and
my faith point out this disembodied spirit
in its next state of existence. With
trembling awe I follow it to the tribunal
of an all-wise, omnipotent, and pure
Judge. There do I contemplate this forlorn
and sullied soul, as rushing uncalled
into the presence of that Being, whose
merciful purposes he has counteracted;
and whose laws he has insulted. Nature
stands appalled, at the magnitude of offences
like these; and humanity must
deplore the sinner thus cut off in the
midst of his sins.
I cannot however help being of opinion
that, useful as the contemplation of a
Flamall’s life may be to beings who fearlessly
follow the impulse of every disorderly
269passion, we, my beloved Lucy, shall
not be unwise, to direct our thoughts
from such shocking depravity of creatures
like ourselves. I wish so to do;
and yet not lose the lesson of wisdom as
applicable to myself. In what, I would
ask you, consisted the difference between
Miss Flint and Rachel Cowley at two
years of age. The general lineaments of
our minds have a near affinity. What
has produced the moral differences which
from that period have discriminated us?
Education, and the habits resulting from
our respective situations: in the one instance,
the soil was left uncultured; in the
other, it was judiciously cultivated. Lucretia
had been overlooked by her mother
in the early period of her life. Indolence
and indulgence were this mother’s
faults. She found, in cultivating the docile
and mild Percival, a gratification of
her own taste, and an object of amusement,
as well as for exclusive tenderness.
270This mother wanted firmness, and the vigilance
necessary for her duty. When
passion had taken its root, this unhappy
creature was consigned over to the care
and tuition of a schoolmistress. I mean
not to be illiberal; for I believe many
women in that class of life are not only accomplished
women, but conscientiously
disposed to be useful to their pupils;
but I cannot think that in a large school,
either the temper, or peculiar moral defects
of a girl are likely to meet with that
nice and accurate observation which are
necessary for their correction. I will
however admit that in this seminary Miss
Flint acquired the outward habits of decorum,
and that knowledge, which, with
experience, and a different temper, might
have conducted her, as it does multitudes
of our sex, in the common routine of private
and domestic life. She then returned
to her parents, slenderly furnished by the
gifts of nature, with a spirit unsubdued,
271and a mind without any fixed principle of
action, beyond a confidence in herself.
She was next a candidate for favour in
the world; and she proudly conceived
that no one would dare refuse it; but
she found a rival, even in the cradle,
and under the parental roof. Is it to be expected,
that from such a disposition, and
under such circumstances, envy and malice
could be long a stranger to her? The
mother perceived their baneful influence;
and she opposed to their growth, nothing
but remedies which relieved herself from
trouble and vexation. She flattered instead
of reproving, and gave to her daughter
an authority which she knew she would
abuse. Uncontrouled and domineering
over those about her; irritated by the neglect
of those whom she could not subjugate
to her imperious will, she became
soured, disappointed, and vindictive; and
she finished by becoming the fit instrument
in the hands of a Flamall, for the ruin of
272the innocent, and the perpetration of injustice,
cruelty, and deceit.
Thus have we seen the fatal torrent of
unchecked passions flow! but suppose
this wretched victim of their fury had
been in Mrs. Hardcastle’s hands. Oh
Lucy, we want no supposition! We
have seen a torrent, not less impetuous,
directed by her wisdom, to the salutary
purposes for which Heaven gave it strength
and abundance; and instead of desolating
all within its reach, it has been led to
supply delight, and satisfaction! How
often has her patient firmness subdued my
angry passions? How often has she detected
them before I knew their power!
With what skill did she temper and mix
the warm affections of my nature with the
rougher elements which composed me.
How sweet, how endearing was her notice
of every little triumph I gained over myself;
and with what discrimination did she
effect that bond of love, which made her
273children useful to each other. Her Lucy’s
gentleness was opposed to her Rachel’s
courage; and Horace’s self-command was
the only point to which emulation was recommended.
Is it wonderful, that I have
escaped the fate of a Miss Flint? Is it
wonderful that I should love virtue, and
reverence a faith thus exemplified? No,
Lucy. But I have to fear, lest I should disgrace
Mrs. Hardcastle. We may, and I
hope we shall, live to be wives and mothers.
Let us in that case, aim at being
something better than mere teeming animals;
and like some in that class, who,
following their instinct, squeeze their
offspring to death through fondness. I am
persuaded that we are weak and fallible
creatures; but I cannot for an instant admit,
that an all-wise and merciful Being
has exacted any one duty, or enforced any
one command, without having bestowed
upon us the faculties and capacity for fulfilling
our obligations. Every mother whose
274mind is sound, is called upon to perform
the duties of a mother; and without any
better guide than her own reason and attention,
she will soon perceive that something
more is required, than merely watching
over the preservation of her children.
I am, and I wish to remain, a stranger to
that humility which represses, as beyond
me, all that is arduous and praise-worthy.
I believe, that by applying my heart to
wisdom, I may become wise; and the
mother who diligently watches over the
first openings of moral existence in the beings
entrusted to her, will soon discover,
that she has the necessary talents for
governing them safely. Attention and experience
will enlighten her; and should
she never reach to the accomplishment of
all she wishes, she will at least secure to
herself the favour of God, and her own
peace of mind. It pleases me, my Lucy,
to look forward to that period, when, with
the name of Hardcastle, I may be treading
275in the same path of duty which our mother
pursued in her road to Heaven. Will you
wish me to suppress my hopes, that I may
one day be able, with the pure joy of an accepted
spirit in her abode of bliss, to point
to her those inmates, whom her virtues
trained for happiness? Yet why this tear?
I cannot erase the blot it has made.
Wherefore is it that my spirit faints? You
must come and chide me; you will find
me paler and thinner than when I last saw
you; and, it may be, less the heroine,
since there has been less to oppose me.
But I hate sea voyages!
Oh sweet Valentine! hasten to us! hasten
and bring to me my Lucy! thou shalt
then be crowned as the harbinger of spring
and Horace. Tell my “lily,” that we
expect no tears nor sighs. She is desired
to wear the same face she did with her
lilac ribbands. We are all learning to be
philosophers, except Malcolm, who is
daily in danger of losing his good humour;
276and rates the work people for not being at
Wenland, at the same time that they are
here. I believe in my conscience that Miss
Hardcastle and Miss Howard might sleep
in the stable for him. But we do not mind
his pouting; and your apartment, which
was Miss Flint’s, is to be made worthy of
the captain’s guests. Adieu, my dear girl;
the good people here send their blessings
with
Rachel Cowley’s.
CHAP. XIII. — LETTER LXXVI. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER LXXVII. From Mrs. Serge to Miss Cowley.
277
January 24.
My dear Lucy will not expect to find
me in the broad road of folly and laughter,
with so many admonitions of wisdom as I
have of late been favoured with; I repeat
the word favoured; for poor and weak
must be the mind which does not profit
from such lessons as I have had to study!
Do not, however, take the alarm; I hope,
I shall escape dullness, although I am become
somewhat graver than in the days of
278my flippancy, and rude health. My poor
Horace! But I dare not trust myself with
the subject! But is it not wonderful that
no one can be found to comfort the Earl
of S——, but his son’s friend, whose
heart is pierced with an anguish as bitter
and acute as his own! I am selfish, I am
ashamed to tell you that I am become fretful
and nervous. You must come, my
Lucy; I want you to sustain and to chide
me. My spirits are weakened, and my
mind is assailed by apprehensions which I
dare not give to you. This news from
Lisbon has been hurtful to me. I send you
enclosed a letter which may make you
smile: it did not move a muscle in my
face. Lady Maclairn undertook to reply
to it for me. She was obliged to answer a
letter of condolence which Mrs. Serge
thought it polite to send to her “dear
cousin.” I believe her ladyship hazarded
to give her correspondent a little wholesome
advice, which will be well for her
279if she understands its value. Mrs. Heartley
has received letters from her son Henry;
he is coming home. His friend’s
death, with his dying advice to the young
man, make only a part of those motives
which induce Henry to quit his present
situation. Mr. Bembridge, the deceased,
has left him an estate in Berkshire of three
hundred pounds per annum; and Henry
wisely thinks, that with this provision and
Mary Howard, he shall be as rich as a
Nabob, with a ruined constitution, and
twenty lacks of rupees. “He will have
letters before he embarks, which will dash
from his lips this cup of happiness,” observed
the anxious mother. “Miss Howard
is now in a very different situation from
that, under which my poor boy vowed to
live, and to labour for her. I would not
on any account have the captain made acquainted
with my son’s hopes. He thinks
Henry is right to return home; but I now
wish him to remain where he is for a few
280years.” “Leave him to Providence,” replied
I, “and enjoy the blessings before you.
Alice will be soon happy, and who knows
whether one wedding may not be followed
by another? a little money will not
spoil Mary Howard, or change Captain
Flint’s nature.” “I shall take care,” observed
she thoughtfully, “to prevent
Henry from coming hither; I wish Alice
were settled, I should immediately go to
town, and wait there for my son’s arrival.”
Cannot you, Lucy, find out whether
Mary’s colour is yet lilac. Alice thinks it
is; but we may be conjecturing on false
grounds; for Alice Heartley and Rachel
Cowley are very simple girls; yet I
do believe the captain wishes to see Henry
united to him by the tenderest ties. He
even proposed the other day to Malcolm
to wait for his brother’s arrival before he
married. Malcolm smiled; but declined
the advice.
281You saw enough of our doctor, when
you were at Farefield, to enter into the
spirit of my allusion, when I call him the
sun which cheers us. We may say with
truth that we live in his smiles. Should
you fancy this expression too poetical to
suit with Douglass’s stern face, it is because
you have not seen him when with a
patient who he thinks wants comfort more
than medicine. Did they inform you that
he never quitted my room during six and
thirty hours? Horace will love him, Lucy,
and you will be grateful. Amongst other
ingenious hypotheses which he maintained
this morning was one that will please you;
for he proved to demonstration that Miss
Cowley “had the strength of a horse.” He
has been scolding me for this last hour;
and has provoked me to laugh at him and
myself.
Oh! how tedious are the hours till I
hear from you. Mrs. Allen sends her good
wishes with your
Rachel Cowley’s.
282P. S. I am well, quite well, Lucy!
my cordial in my bosom! Do not mind
a word in this letter. Douglass will triumph.
He predicted how it would be;
when the wind blew propitiously.
My Dear Miss Cowley,
It would give me inexpressible concern,
could I for a moment believe that
you “himagine” I have forgotten you, or
the promise I made you, when at Farefield
Hall. You can be no stranger to the “hevents”
which have taken place in my family
since that time; and of course these
283will account to you for my “happarent”
neglect. I have endeavoured to practise
what I preach, which is more, as Mrs.
Dangle says, than many who are paid for
preaching do; for, as I have said in my
letter to Lady Maclairn, I see that nothing
good comes from sorrowing for those
who are removed from this world. Death
is appointed for all; and the best thing
we can do is to submit to the loss of our
friends and relations, who are summoned
away before us. I dare say the death of
Mr. Flamall has made her ladyship very
unhappy, but time will restore her spirits,
unless she do as my Jerry “do,” yield to
grief, and mope in her room. My kind
friend, Mrs. Dangle, would not permit me
to remain at Putney, where it was impossible
I could have recovered my spirits.
She has a charming house in the Haymarket;
and since I have been her guest,
I am much better; and indeed should be
quite well, were it not for the vexation
284Nora “give” me. You will be quite
astonished to see the halteration a few months
of matrimony “have” made in her; and it
will give you a dread of love matches!
But I would not discourage you. Nora
“have” only to thank herself for all that
“have” happened to disturb her. Captain
Fairly is not to blame, because his wife is
jealous; nor Mrs. Dangle, because her
constant good humour “make” her the
favourite with hevery gentleman. But Nora
was always perverse in her temper!
she can be heasy no where now, but at Putney.
When single, she detested the place.
She have been very ill; and her disappointment
have perhaps made her lower in
spirits; but, as I tell her, “the worse luck
now, the better in future.” She may have
children enow by the time she is forty.
I hope, my dear Miss Cowley, nothing
will prevent your visit to me in February.
Captain Fairly has, very politely, offered
to be your escort, and desires me to assure
285you, that he will, with the utmost pleasure,
come to Farefield to fetch you, if
you will permit him to have that honour;
but I conclude you will not be allowed to
leave Mrs. Allen behind you; so that you
will happoint the captain to meet you on the
road. I shall be very happy to see Mrs. Allen.
She will be nice company for Mr. Serge,
in our absence. I promise you,
nothing shall be omitted for your amusement.
Mrs. Dangle is quite in polite life;
and she engages to “hintroduce” you every
where. You will meet the best company
at her table; for her husband is never happy
without society. There is a Major
Ogle in love with you only from description.
He says, that I have entangled his
heart, and that he must be our shadow;
therefore, we shall not want for a beau, nor
one that half the women in London are
dying for.
I would advise you not to make up any
thing when you are for your journey; it
286would be only so much labour lost. But
it may not be amiss for you to begin to
accustom yourself to fewer petticoats. We
wear here only one. But we have found
out vays and means to obviate the mischief
of going unclothed, and we contrive to
keep ourselves warm; but this, as Mrs.
Dangle says, is a secret haunter nu; for if
the gentlemen knew you were in the habit
of wearing small clothes whilst single, they
might fear for their privileges when you
married. You will be delighted with this
charming woman. She is the counter-part
of you, only she has seen more of polite
life, since her marriage, than you have
been in the vay of seeing at Farefield;
which, to say the truth, is a sad place for
such a young lady as Miss Cowley.
I remain in the expectation of hearing
from you the time fixed for seeing you;
and I shall be impatient till I can show
you that I am your affectionate friend,
Lydia Serge.
287P. S. You need not be under any fear
of meeting that disgrace to me, Lydia. I
have not seen her since her leaving Putney,
nor will I ever again hacknowledge her
as my child. Jerry may be as obstinate
as he please. So will I, on this point.
You will be astonished to hear, that he
have set up the feller who married her like
a gentleman, and even sent down a postchay
for his lady’s use. I see into this
malice. It is all done to spite the captain,
whom he hate. I am sorry to say,
Nora’s foolish complaints have done no
good. I am sure, I can see nothing in
the captain that would not please any reasonable
woman; and to me, his behaviour
is always hattentive and respectful. You
need not shew this letter to my cousin;
Sir Murdoch have made her quite a methodist.
What a shocking end Flamall have
made! But he was always as proud as
Lucifer.
CONCLUDING CHAPTER.
288
Having faithfully performed my
pleasing task, and exerted my best abilities
to recommend myself to my readers,
I do honestly confess, that I am gratified
by finding that something remains, in
which my services may be useful to their
curiosity. Except two letters, from Miss
Cowley to her correspondents at Heathcot,
nothing appears of sufficient consequence
to this work, they being confined solely
to Miss Hardcastle’s and Miss Howard’s
journey to Farefield; which they reached
in the month of February.
It remains with me, consequently to
supply a few pages to this, otherwise
289abrupt conclusion of a work, already reprehensible
in the critic’s eye.
My readers may be able to recollect the
name of Montrose, the early friend of
Mr. Philip Flint, who, with his sister, the
wife of Mr. Lindsey, shared in his confidence,
with the truth and ardour of youthful
zeal and friendship, during his progress
to Miss Sinclair’s heart.
To this gentleman am I at present indebted
for a situation in life which I
would not exchange for the most brilliant
which this world has to give. For I am
sheltered from “the proud man’s contumely,”
and “the pang which the
worthy of the unworthy takes.” I was in my
friend’s hospitable house at the shocking
termination of Mr. Flamall’s life. This
event produced many changes in favour of
those, to whom he had been more obnoxious
than useful. My brother Lindsey,
was immediately placed in Mr. Flamall’s
office, as this regarded Miss Cowley’s
290property on the island; and Mr. Flint,
with Counsellor Steadman’s advice and
concurrence, relieved her, by an appeal to
Chancery, from the restrictive clauses in her
father’s will, they being her appointed
guardians until she was of age.
In the mean time, I was judged capable
of educating the young Cowley’s. Their
gentle and interesting mother had formed
an intimacy with my sister Lindsey, during
the time they resided under the same
roof, at Mr. Dalrymple’s; and to judge
of the future by the present, these friends
will never have but one and the same roof.
In the hours of confidence, which succeeded
to their first acquaintance, Marian
informed Mrs. Lindsey, of her motives
for withdrawing from Mr. Flamall’s authority
and power, by quitting an abode
she loved. He had importuned her with
his passion even before Mr. Cowley’s
death; and she held him in abhorrence
and terror. She made no doubt of the illegality
291of Mr. Cowley’s will, he having
repeatedly told her that she would find
a protector and a guardian for her sons in
Mr. Oliver Flint; and from the moment
she was informed of Mr. Flamall’s authority,
she determined never to lose sight of
her children. Mr. Philip Flint befriended
her, because Juba had told him that I
was afraid of his uncle. Her entire concurrence
in committing her children to my
care; her confidence in my integrity, led
her cheerfully to part with them, and we
reached England in safety; where my
trust was sanctioned by their expecting
sister and maternal friend.
From that hour I have experienced the
comforts of a home, endeared to me by
all that can give zest to rational pleasure
with an undepraved heart. Montrose was
understood as a man to be trusted; although,
to say the truth, my friends appear
to be governed by motives, not unlike
292Bassanio, when he decides on the
casket.—
“Thou meagre lead,
Which rather threat’nest than dost promise aught;
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,
And here I chuse.”
In giving up to my discretion her correspondence
with Miss Hardcastle, during
her residence at Farefield, Mrs. Hardcastle
added those occurrences which had taken
place after the day which terminated
“her captivity.” “You will easily believe,”
said she smiling, “that Counsellor
Steadman was as ready to resign the heiress,
as I was to be rid of the plagues of
heirship; but Alice was a wife before I
left the hall; and, my dear Lady Maclairn
was obliged to confess, that life has
its blessings; and, that the human heart
can never want an inlet to joy, until it has
banished affection for others. She was
right in saying this; and she knows, and
feels it to be truth. Mary has neither
293changed her colours nor her mind with her
fortune, and her uncle prefers Henry
Heartley to a rich baronet. We shall see
these true lovers united,” added she,
“when at Farefield; and then Sir Murdoch
and his lady, will quit the hall for
Wenland Place; where, I confidently hope,
they will find a home of uninterrupted repose.
“The Duke of S——,” continued Mrs.
Hardcastle, “finding that my Horace had
enough of the good things of this world;
and, well knowing, he had a recompense
in store for himself in Heaven, contrived
to be useful to Mr. Sedley, and by his interest,
procured for him a valuable crown
living; and with his money secured to him
the parish, of which his uncle is the pastor,
and he still the curate.” “Such, Mr.
Montrose,” added she, with seriousness,
“is the present state and condition of
those persons, in whose happiness you are
so interested, and in whose sorrows, you
294have taken so lively a concern. If, as
you say, the whole tissue of events before
you have confirmed you in your belief of
a retributive justice, it is well: as it is displayed
in this scene of action, it may be
useful to others; although I am of opinion,
that not a day passes, that does not
add to our conviction, that the sinner is
taken in his own snare, and the virtuous
kept from falling by a power beyond our
finite reason. But as your intention and
labour will have little aid from fiction,
let your fidelity, as an historian, compensate
for the absence of the marvellous.
Do not omit to say, that Philip Flint and
Malcolm Maclairn are brothers, whose
hearts are not divided by the ocean which
separates them. They live in hopes of
being re-united; but Mr. Flint has inherited
from his grandfather so strong a predilection
in favour of the island of Jamaica,
that it would not surprise me, if he remained
there until he could man a ship
295with his own boys, and freight it with
Sinclairs and Lindseys. I am not quite so
solicitous on this subject, as Malcolm,”
added she, “we are happy now at Wenland
place: besides, let us be content.
I do not wish my deputy, your sister, to
be deserted. She is kind and gentle to my
numerous dependents; and Lindsey is the
sweetener to the sugar he sends us. Heaven
be praised,” continued she, “Cowley’s
slaves are yet cherished as men,
though unfortunate men! But I hate the
subject.”
To these instructions I have paid
due obedience; but I have passed some
weeks at Farefield Hall since writing the
above.
And I think it will be no matter of surprise,
much less of censure, that I should
indulge myself with a supernumerary page
or two, for the sole purpose of paying my
tribute of respect to a character so much
distinguished by Miss Cowley, in her letters
296to her friend. Mr. Serge was not forgotten
by her, when she became Mrs.
Hardcastle. “You will see my favourite
when you go to Farefield,” said she, “and
you will judge of my hasty sketches of
the most simple-hearted man who lives.
Supported by the rectitude of his own mind,
and a piety which rests solely on the goodness
of God, he has sustained very severe
trials, with a patience and resignation that
ought to put philosophy to the blush.
The loss of his favourite daughter, the
prop of his comforts, was followed by the
death of Mrs. Fairly, who, in consequence
of a severe cold taken at a place of public
amusement, to which she was reluctantly
hurried, after an indisposition of a dangerous
kind, fell into a rapid decline, and
was consigned to the grave before she was
one and twenty. Her, giddy, thoughtless
mother was at this melancholy period
on a tour of pleasure with Mrs. Dangle,
recently become a widow; and Captain
297Fairly, with another military beau were
their escorts.
Poor Mr. Serge, assisted by his friends
the Tomkins’s, supported this scene, and
without designing to write to his unfeeling
son, or to his foolish misled wife, sheltered
his sorrows at his daughter Mrs. Willet’s,
leaving to the public papers to announce
to the travellers the event, which
they might have foreseen before they left
home. “But the claims of the disconsolate
widow, Mrs. Dangle, could not be
overlooked.” Mr. Maclairn and his wife
joined the dejected Mr. Serge at his daughter
Willet’s; and by diverting his thoughts
to the final establishment of this child,
they had the satisfaction of seeing him improve
in health and spirits. He had not,
however, lost his resentment in regard to
his wife’s desertion; but with firmness declared,
that he meant to give up his house
at Putney, and to live remote from London.
With these resolutions he returned
298to town; and it appears that he was steady.
The lady returned also from her excursion,
somewhat humbled by the reception he
gave her; and probably, shocked by the
death of her child, she made concessions
which failed in their effect; for she would
not submit to give up her dear Mrs. Dangle,
nor refuse Captain Fairly’s visits—points
obstinately enforced by her husband.
He again returned to Mrs. Willet’s, and
found consolation. His grandson amused
him; and “honest William,” as he calls
Mr. Willet, hourly rose in his estimation.
Some months passed: he resolutely refused
to return home, without an assurance
that he should find his wife willing to give
up her son, Fairly, and Mrs. Dangle’s society.
But this poor, weak, and misguided
woman, had too promptly acquired
the lessons they had taught her; and she
was hastening on to destruction, when an
accident deprived her of life. A Major
Ogle, who had his hopes and projects,
299flattered by the age and vexations “of the
rich old taylor,” drove one morning Mrs.
Serge an airing in his tandem from Dangle
Park, leaving his friend the noble Captain
Fairly to amuse Mrs. Dangle. Though a
proficient in gallantry and gaming, the
major could not manage two high fed and
spirited horses. Some linen drying on a
hedge by a cottage, frightened the leader;
he became ungovernable, the carriage
was overset, and Mrs. Serge received a
blow on the temple from the horse’s foot,
which killed her on the spot; her admirer
was quit with a broken arm. Mr. Serge
received the intelligence of this shocking
accident with silent sorrow: he took to
his bed, and Malcolm was soon his nurse.
“I have outlived my feelings!” said the
poor man to him; “I dare not tell you
what are my thoughts at this hour; but I
sometimes think, it would be sinful to sorrow,
for the loss of a woman, who, had
she lived, would have lived only to have
300disgraced herself. She is taken from the
evil company of those who have perverted
her simplicity, and made her the laugh of
their dissolute hours. But the day will
come, when they will remember having
corrupted innocence, and misled ignorance:
her cause, and mine will be heard
at a tribunal, they will tremble to approach.”
He now determined on his
plans for his future life, and with his usual
munificence left his house and furniture at
Putney for Mrs. Tomkins’s use; and he
has from that time resided at Mr. Wilson’s,
in Captain Flint’s deserted apartments;
where, in the comforts of a family
attached to him, and in the society of Mrs.
Heartley, who still lives at the Abbey, he
is cheerful and contented. “When you
know him,” continued Mrs. Hardcastle,
“it will not surprise you to find him, treated
by his friends with an affectionate
fondness, resembling that which is given
to a cherished child; but although he
301may be called the pest of every house he
frequents, such is the genuine goodness of
his nature, that indulgence cannot make
him forward or capricious. He does not
even claim the respect due to his age and
station; and whilst the poor around him
regard him as their tutelary divinity, they
love him as a neighbour, and he converses
with them like one. His loquacity
will amuse you, for he may be said to
think aloud; and his gratitude to those
who, in his own words, “are kind to him,”
is displayed by the minutest attention to
their ease. Though he greatly prefers an
open carriage to a coach, he keeps one because
his ladies want it in bad weather;
and Mrs. Wilson is not permitted to take
cold when she goes to church, for he insists
on using it as a family convenience.”
My recommendations were too powerful
to be overlooked by Mr. Serge. We
we were intimate friends in an hour; and
it has been a source both of satisfaction and
curiosity to me, to profit from the frankness
302and openness of a mind so uncommon.
I have seen that the encroachments
of age and natural infirmities may
find a barrier, without the aid of philosophy,
and that in a cheerful piety a man
may find a safe refuge from the cold apathy
and querulous temper of near fourscore
years, without other aid than his Bible, and
a good heart.
Our conversations are long, though desultory.
He frequently, however, talks of
his past sorrows and troubles. Speaking
of his daughter, Mrs. Fairly, he observed,
“that from the time she married, she resembled
a poor unfledged bird, who had
been ensnared within sight of the nest,
and the wing which had cherished her.”
“Poor thing,” added he, “she told me
once that her husband had taught her to
love me.” I spoke of his satisfaction in
regard to Mr. Willet, with whom Mr.
Maclairn was so pleased. “Yes,” replied
he, “thank God, Lydia is the wife of an
honest man. I do not wish him to be such
303a gentleman as Fairly. Plain cloth suits
me, Mr. Montrose: I have worn no other,
since I was born; except the trimmings
are, like Malcolm’s, of pure gold, they
are not ornamental in my opinion: tinsel
may decorate a fool, and set off a knave,
whilst it lasts; but it will be for a very
little time. Mark what I tell you; Fairly
will die in in a gaol; and his wife, late
Mrs. Dangle, will want bread, and pity
into the bargain. But I forgive them;
it is my duty; and like all my Master’s
burthens, easy; for what should I gain
by being unforgiving?
The other day he with much jocularity
asked me whether the witnessing so much
of conjugal felicity had not put matrimony
into my head? I replied, that, on the
contrary, it would probably stamp me a
batchelor for life. “How so,” asked he,
“Why,” answered I, “I see that in this
lottery of life, there are some capital prizes;
but I am too poor to hazard any part of
my fund of present happiness, lest I spend
304my money for a blank, and I am become
too ambitious to be contented with a petty
prize.” He laughed, warning me, that I
might change my mind. “For such things
do happen,” continued he; “at your age
I was in no hurry to marry, yet when turned
of forty, I married, without consulting
my register, or my reason. My good
aunt who lived with me, perceived, I suppose,
that I was thinking of changing my
condition, and she was much pleased;
recommending perpetually to my notice,
a very worthy young woman of her acquaintance;
but I know not how it fell
out, after seeing two or three times my
poor, artless, good humoured Lydia, I
was not easy in my mind; and thought
my aunt’s favourite, Miss Welldon, looked
of a fretful temper, and was of too ceremonious
a turn for me, though she was
comely, and only six and thirty, which
certainly was a more suitable age for mine,
and I might have been comfortable with
her. I soon found that Lydia was too
305young a wife for me,” continued he,
thoughtfully, “but I loved her, and I
well knew what kindness would do with
her. She was contented, and all was
peace with us, till she was perverted by
bad company. Whenever, you marry,
Mr. Montrose, take care to know what
company the lady keeps; much depends
on that; and avoid a disproportion in
years: there is hazard in trusting too
much, in some cases.”
He is very curious in his questions relative
to my two pupils, who are his favourites.
“It is all in good time yet,”
observed he, “but we must be careful
not to neglect our blessings. My grandson,
Jerry, is a fine boy, and little William
very active and promising. Their mother
is an excellent nurse, and Mrs. Maclairn
was quite surprised at seeing her a notable
housewife. She has been favoured, Mr.
Montrose. There is a curate and his
wife near them, that are invaluable to
these young people; and I will take care
306that their goodness shall not be lost. But
poor Lydia must not be trusted with my
boys too long. Happily she promises to
be a “fruitful vine.” So the nursing will
be transferred. I mean to give my children
a good education, Mr. Montrose. It
shall not be my fault, if they lack knowledge.
I cannot reproach myself with
having wilfully neglected my duty; but
with a more enlarged knowledge I might
have performed it better, and shunned
many errors in conduct. I have, of late,
been of opinion, that I had, in common
with other men better instructed, a capacity
that might have been improved by
learning; and I will tell you the reason
for this seeming presumption,” added he,
suddenly stopping and facing me; “it is
this: that, although I cannot talk, nor
argue like you, and our friends within,
yet I very often comprehend the drift of
your discourse, and am entertained by
your debates.” Before I could make any
answer to this observation, Mr. Hardcastle
307called him, and reminded him of
the dampness of the evening, adding,
that he was waited for at the loo-table.
He nodded in sign of obedience, and
said to me, “you may think I am vain,
but I must tell you, that I perceive what
has brought pam into favour here; I see
all the kindness of their good hearts! It
is well for me that I know that my
debts of gratitude will be discharged in
full by One who is able to pay them.”
He entered the house, and with bustling
cheerfulness claimed his privilege of sitting
next Mrs. Hardcastle.
Should these touches of my pencil be
judged injurious to a portrait already so
faithfully delineated by a more skillful
hand, I have only to request the censurer
to place the mistake, and others as glaring,
to my account, and to separate them from
the labours of a copyist, whose sole merit
is confined to a diligent and honest purpose;
and whose simplicity of heart has,
in the presence of the unlearned Mr.
308Serge, a hundred times pronounced, that
learning would not have added one line to
his stature.
“An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
It is now more than three years since
my manuscript has been in my writing
desk. Already has time shadowed off a
portion of those vivid colours, with which
my picture of Farefield Hall then glared.
The death of Lady Maclairn this spring,
has saddened every heart; whilst, from
her dying lessons and calm resignation,
have resulted a consolation which all have
found useful. Sir Murdoch yielded to
Mrs. Hardcastle’s entreaties, to join her
in London soon after this melancholy
event. Again has she been to him the
“angel of peace,” and, with renewed
health and spirits, he accompanied the
family to Heathcot in June.
It is at Heathcot, according to Sir Murdoch’s
opinion, that Mrs. Hardcastle must
be seen, in order to be justly viewed. I
think as he does; for it is here, and here
309only, that the vivacity and brilliancy of
her mind, appear to yield to the satisfactions
of her heart. She is always amiable;
but at Heathcot she is more placid,
more affectionate, and, to use her own
words, “never from home.”
I conceived, that this was the season for
renewing my petition relative to her and
Mr. Hardcastle’s letters. I could not succeed.
She saw that I was disappointed.
“Be comforted,” said she smiling; “I
will, if you please, formally announce to
the public, what will satisfy half your
readers, as well as the best written love
letters extant. I can assert, that Horace
Hardcastle is still obstinate in error; and
that he yet worships the idol formed by
his own hand; an acquaintance with its
defects, serves only to augment his attachment,
for he pretends to find, even in
these, grounds for his faith and motives
for his love.”
“But do you not see?” observed I,
“how much my moral must lose in its
310moral design, by the omission of such letters
as yours and Mr. Hardcastle’s? A
passion built on so noble a basis!”——She
interrupted me. “Enough has appeared,”
said she, “to justify my preference
and affection for my husband. My
principle of conduct is at the service of my
sex. The young cannot adopt a better.
The moment they know, that every approach
to vice and libertinism is contagious,
they will shun them, however decorated;
and when they know, that by
marrying a fool, their own gold will be
mingled with an alloy which must sink its
value and obscure its brightness, they
will be safe, and preserve a heart worthy
of a good husband.”
“I cannot help having my fears,” said
I, rising, somewhat discomfited, and taking
up my manuscript. “It is so unlike
the popular novels of the day.”——“What
should you fear?” replied she, with eagerness.
“Why, misses, in their teens
311write novels and publish them. They
make, nothing of it.” I laughed, and
gravely wished, that I had their youth and
attractions to plead for my folly and failures.
“Nonsense,” cried she, laughing
in her turn, I was speaking of their courage,
not of their performances. Imitate
them, at least in your good opinion, of
your own talents; and should you, like
them, find you have over-rated your abilities,
settle the business, like our friend
Sancho Panza; and say, “que Sancho
écuyer cru bien aussi vîte en Paradis, que
Sancho gouverneur.” My father, and
the mother of this family, as you justly stile
Mrs. Allen, wish you to print your work.
They think your secret worth knowing,
and we admire the skill and discretion,
with which you have contrived to divulge
it, with usefulness to all, and without
wounding any. I bowed, and have obeyed.
FINIS.
NEW NOVELS, &c.
Just Published,
By W. EARLE,
At his Circulating Library, No 47, Albemarle
Street, Piccadilly, and may be had of all
other Booksellers in the Kingdom.
1.
In 4 Volumes, 12mo. Price 16s. in Boards, Gondez, the
Monk; an Interesting Romance of the Thirteenth Century, by W. H.
Ireland, Author of the Abbess, and other celebrated
Novels, Romances, Legends, &c. and of Vortigern and Rowena, Henry the Second, and other curious Manuscripts, attributed to Shakspeare.
2.
In 3 Volumes, 12mo. Price 12s. in Boards, The Mad Dog; or
Modern Manners, by a Lady of Fashion.
3.
In 3 Volumes, 12mo. Price 3s. 6d. in Boards, Crimes
and Characters, by Mrs. Pilkington,
Author of Parental Duplicity, &c. &c.
4.
Octavo, Price 2s. 6d.
A Concise History of the Present State of the Commerce of Great Britain, with the Continent of Europe, and with various Parts of
the World. Translated from the German of Dr. Reinhard, Professor
in the University of Gotingen, Knight of the Order of St. Joachim, &c. &c.
with copious explanatory Notes, by J. W. Hucklebridge.
S. Rousseau, Printer,
Wood Street, Spa Fields.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.